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Photographii 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  H580 

(716)  872-4503 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 

1980 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  fo*-  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliograohically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which    lay  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checited  below. 


L'Institut  a  microfilm6  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6x6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 


D 
D 
D 
D 
□ 
D 
D 
D 
D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur6e  et/ou  pellicul6e 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
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Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'autres  documents 

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along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int6rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenevei  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  peg    j  blanches  ajoutdes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  dtait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6X6  fiimdes. 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 

□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaur6es  et/ou  pellicul6es 

I — I    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 


D 


D 
D 


Pages  ddcoiordes,  tachet^es  ou  piqu6es 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ddtachdes 


I      I    Showthrough/ 


Transparence 

Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Quality  in^gale  de  I'impression 


I — I    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  ''r  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  film^es  6  nouveau  de  fa9on  6 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


D 


Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires; 


/ 

□    This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 
Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


\T\ 

12X                            MX                            3DX                            2«X                            28X                            32X 

The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'exemplaire  filmd  fut  reproduit  grSce  d  la 
gindrositd  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetd  de  l'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmags. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimde  sont  filmds  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  una  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — *>  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  filmd  A  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droito, 
et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenarit  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthoda. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

/^  3 


THE 


^  Hermit  of  the  Nonquon 


BY 


CHARLES  NELSON  JOHNSON 


CHICAGO  ANT)  NKW  YORK 

RAND,   McNALLY  Hi  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 


J3Hy 


1 , 


Copyri8:ht,  ,893,  by  R,.„,  M.^,,^,.,  ,^  ,,, 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


I. 

THE  McGLORRIES. 


<</^ABRIELLE!  Gabrielle!     Look  out,  girl!     Don't 

^^  you  see  there?  Turn  the  canoe  into  that  inlet, 
quick,  or  you'll  get  caught  in  the  drift  of  logs.  Gabri- 
elle!  Can't  you  hear  your  father  calling?  Oh,  Gabri- 
clk!  Bless  me,  there — she's  caught!  Heaven  help — 
no,  she  just  missed  it!  " 

And  the  father  gave  a  great  breath  of  relief.  Then, 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  big  rough  hand  to  keep 
away  the  sharp  rays  of  sunshine  while  he  watched  her 
landing,  he  continued:  "There  now,  the  little  minx  is 
laughing  at  me.  I  believe  she  saw  the  logs  all  the 
time.  Oh,  that  girl  will  be  the  death  of  me  yet  with 
her  pranks." 

She  came  bounding  up  the  bank  toward  him  with 
the  sprightliness  of  a  wild  deer,  and  threw  herself 
laughingly  into  his  arms.  He  patted  her  shoulder 
tenderly,  and  said: 

"Why  did  you  do  it?  You  might  know  you'd 
frighten  me." 

"  Maybe  that's  why  I  did  it,"  she  answered,  mischiev- 
ously. "  Oh,  father,  it's  such  fun  being  out  on  the 
river."  And  the  black  eyes  snapped,  the  white  teeth 
gleamed,  and  the  unruly  hair  tumbled  about  her  neck 
and  shoulders. 

(5) 


6 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


Their  little  )og  cabin  stood  near  the  river,  on  the  edge 
of  a  thick  wood,  and  as  they  stepped  inside  the  door 
the  father  said  to  tlie  housewife: 

"  Mother,  this  mischief  has  been  at  her  tricks  again. 
Had  my  heart  in  my  month  down  there  by  the  river 
just  now  trying  to  get  herself  canght  in  a  drift  of  logs. 
We'll  have  to  tic  her  up,  mother,  I  think.  It's  the  only 
way  to  keep  her." 

"And  sure  that'll  not  keep  her,"  retorted  the  mother. 
"  You  don't  know  her  if  you  think  it  will.  She's  out 
of  all  manner  of  reason  with  anything  I  ever  saw. 
Sure  and  I  don't;  know  where  she  gets  it." 

For  a  mother  never  can  understand  why  her  daughter 
should  develop  unusual  characteristics  of  this  sort. 
But  Gabrielle  came  honestly  by  her  disposition,  after 
all.  Her  mother  was  Irish,  and  a  lively  dame  too  in  her 
day,  if  the  truth  be  told;  while  her  father — well,  his 
birthplace  was  unknown  and  his  parentage  a  mystery, 
but  he  could  not  have  been  mistaken  in  appearance  for 
anything  but  a  Frenchman.  And  his  first  name  also 
smacked  strongly  of  his  nationality,  but  his  second — 
well,  his  second  was  McGlorrie.  Bonaventurc  McGlorrie 
— there  was  something  grotesque  in  the  combination; 
and  we  may  as  well  tell  how  he  came  by  such  a  name. 

In  the  early  days  of  what  was  then  called  Upper 
Canada  there  was  a  sparse  settlement  in  that  region 
which  in  after  years,  as  civilization  pushed  itself  farther 
north,  was  called  **  The  Front."  "  The  Front "  embraced 
in  a  vague  way  all  the  territory  on  the  shore  of  Lake 
Ontario  in  the  vicinity  of  Little  York  (now  Toronto), 
and  running  east  fifty  or  sixty  miles.  About  thirty 
miles  east  of  Little  York,  on  the  Kingston  road,  an 
Irishman   of  the  name  of   Timothy   McGlorrie    kept 


THE    MCGLORRIF.S. 


tavern,  and  one  eveninjif  late  in  the  fall  of  182-  a 
strange  man  called  at  his  place  with  a  little  boy,  and 
asked  for  some  supper.  After  the  meal  was  over  the 
strang-er  begged  permission  to  leave  the  boy  with  the 
McGlorries  while  he  pushed  on  to  Little  York,  promis- 
ing to  call  on  his  way  back  and  get  him.  Mrs,  Mc- 
Glorrie  saw  how  wearied  the  little  fellow  appeared,  and 
consented  to  keep  him.  The  stranger  bade  them 
"good-evening,"  and  that  was  the  last  they  ever  saw 
of  him. 

When  they  began  questioning  the  boy  they  found 
that  he  could  not  speak  a  word  of  English.  They  had 
no  means  of  finding  out  whence  he  came.  The  little 
waif  was  completely  at  their  mercy;  but  an  Irish  heart 
never  was  found  amiss  in  a  case  of  this  kind.  They 
adopted  the  lad,  and  treated  him  like  a  son.  The  only 
intelligible  word  connected  with  his  former  life  that 
they  ever  got  from  him  was  his  first  name.  V/hen  they 
called  him  "  sonny"  he  shook  his  little  curly  pate  quite 
vigorously,  and  retorted,  "  Bon'venture."  When  they 
tried  to  get  him  to  tell  his  second  name,  he  simply 
stared  at  them.  He  probably  did  not  know  that  he  had 
one.  So  they  gave  him  their  own  name,  and  that  is 
how  it  came  to  be  Bonaventure  McGlorrie. 

The  lad  grew  up,  learned  the  language,  married  Nora 
McGlorrie,  and  finally  settled  about  twenty-five  miles 
north  of  the  Kingston  road,  on  the  bank  of  the  Non- 
quon  River,  where  he  followed  the  double  pursuit  of 
lumbering  and  farming.  It  was  little  of  the  latter  he 
did,  the  former  being  more  to  his  taste. 

Bonaventure  knew  he  was  French;  there  was  no 
mistake  about  that.  The  older  he  grew  the  more 
the  fact  impressed  him,  and  he  never  lost  an  oppor- 


8 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


S| 


tunity  of  stating  his  nationality.  It  came  to  be 
quite  a  mania  with  him.  "  I'm  French,  you  know,"  he 
would  say  to  every  chance  acquaintance.  "  French 
descent."  And  at  these  times,  and  also  when  he  became 
angry  or  excited,  he  would  unconsciously  take  on  the 
French  accent.  He  might  start  out  by  saying  "  French," 
but  if  he  continued  the  subject  long,  or  repeated  the 
word  many  times,  it  would  finally  become  "  Franch." 

He  was  never  so  happy  as  when  he  could  meet  a 
Frenchman  and  talk  with  him.  "  I'm  Franch  myself, 
you  know,"  as  if  he  were  paying  himself  a  compliment. 
When  asked  about  his  early  life  or  whence  he  came,  he 
would  suddenly  halt  in  the  conversation,  and  sit  awhile 
with  his  eyes  turned  toward  the  ceiling,  watching  the 
smoke  curl  up  from  his  pipe,  and  then  as  suddenly 
break  out  again:  "Now  that's  just  it!  My  fran',  I'd 
give  this  right  han'  o'  mine  if  I  could  tell  you  daty  In 
these  moments  he  was  French  in  everything — expres- 
sion, appearance,  gesture,  accent. 

When  a  baby  girl  was  born  to  Bonaventure  and  his 
wife  he  gave  her  a  French  name,  and  though  Mrs.  Mc- 
Glorrie  never  was  greatly  taken  with  his  selection,  yet 
she  was  mollified  by  the  privilege  of  naming  the  baby 
boy  who  came  a  few  years  later.  She  called  him  Den- 
nis. So  it  was  "Gabrielle"  and  "  Dinnie."  "And  a 
precious  pair  they  were,"  as  Mrs.  McGlorrie  often  used 
to  remark. 


II. 


THE    INDIAN   AND  THE   FISH. 

nrHE  NoiKiuon  River  makes  many  eiuves  and  bends 
'■'  in  the  last  mile  or  so  of  its  eonrsc  before  emptying 
into  Take  Seiigog,  and  in  the  depths  of  one  of  these 
bends,  where  the  willows  overhang  the  water  and 
deepen  its  color  almost  to  a  black,  some  nice  large  bass 
were  careening  past  each  other  and  frolicking  together 
one  afternoon  a  few  weeks  after  GabricUe's  adventure 
with  the  logs.  One  could  tell  that  they  were  large  by 
seeing  a  sturdy  member  of  the  tribe  occasionally  flop 
his  fat  sides  out  of  the  water  in  play.  The  sunshine 
would  sparkle  for  an  instant  on  his  .shiny  scales,  and 
then  he  would  dart  back  again  to  deep  water,  where  he 
probably  discussed  with  his  fellows  the  advisability  of 
taking  the  bait  on  the  hook  of  one-eyed  Andy,  the 
Indian,  who  sat  stolidly  watching  the  line  hanging  over 
the  side  of  his  canoe.  If  the  bass  did  discuss  this  ques- 
tion they  must  have  decided  against  it,  for  Andy  was 
having  ill  luck.  And  yet  he  sat  there  hour  after  hour 
patiently,  lazily,  looking  at  the  line;  while  the  sun 
gradually  passed  around  to  the  west. 

Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  paddle  up  the 
river,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  canoe  rounded  the  bend, 
and  Gabrielle  sang  out  cheerily: 

"Hello!   Andy.     What  luck?" 

The  Indian  simply  shook  his  head  and  cast  his  one 
eye  dolefully  at  the  bottom  of  his  empty  canoe. 


m 


10 


TIIF,    UKRMIT    OF'^    TMF,    NONQUON. 


"Oh,  you  don't  know  how  to  lisli,  Andy,"  said  Ga- 
bricllc,  lau^hini,'-,  "Wait  till  yon  sec  mc  catch  'cm." 
And  she  tossed  her  hook,  baited  with  the  leg  of  a  frog, 
into  the  pool  not  far  from  the  Indian. 

"  Now,  Andy,  let's  see  who'll  catch  the  first  fish." 
And  both  settled  down  into  that  ominous  silence  which 
creeps  over  every  fisherman  at  the  moment  when  he  is 
expecting  most  on  t'  '  part  of  the  fish.  But  the  fish 
failed  to  bite,  and  it  grew  tiresome  to  Gabrielle,  who 
was  not  so  patient  as  the  Indian.  She  never  could 
remain  quiet  for  long. 

"  Was  the  lake  rough  when  you  came  over  from  the 
island,  Andy? " 

"  Not  much.     Left  there  this  morning." 

"  Been  here  fishing  all  day? " 

"  'Most  all  day." 

"  Andy,  I  think  you're  a  fool,  or  else  you're  lazy — 
maybe  both.  I  couldn't  stand  this  an  hour,  let  alone 
all  day."  She  was  growing  careless  in  her  fishing. 
The  absorption  of  the  first  few  minutes  had  passed 
away,  and  she  was  looking  across  the  water  at  a  flock 
of  blackbirds  that  were  chattering  among  the  rushes. 
Presently  they  flew  off  with  a  whirring  sound,  and 
Gabrielle  cast  her  eyes  about  for  something  else  to 
interest  her. 

"  Did  you  notice  whether  they  had  taken  the  last  lot 
of  logs  away  from  Bascoes'  landing  as  you  came  up — 
Hello! — hold  on,  Andy — keep  cool,  I've  got  him — look 
out  or  he'll  get  tangled  in  your  line.  Oh,  he's  a  big  one. 
I'm  afraid  he'll  break  my  hook,  Andy.  Steady  now. 
See  him  dart!  see  him  plunge!"  Her  line  was  being 
twitched  viciously  here  and  there  in  the  water,  while 
her  pole  was  bent  into  a  semicircle.     "  Oh,  he's  a  beauty 


TfFF,    INDIAN    AND    THF,    FISH. 


11 


if  I  can  only — lanil  liim — hold  on  now — there!  Here 
lie  comes — there — now  I've  j^ot  him.  Whew,  isn't  he 
a  bonncer?  See  him  jump!  He'll  i!;Qt  out  of  the  canoe 
yet  if  I'm  not  careful.  I'll  hold  him  down,  Andy,  while 
you  ptill  your  canoe  alonj^-side  and  run  your  knife  into 
him  just  back  of  the  jjfills.  Be  careful  and  don't  cut 
me;  he's  squirming  so.  There,  I  guess  that'll  settle 
him." 

And  she  sank  back  into  the  canoe  with  a  great  sigh 
of  satisfaction.  Her  eyes  sj)arkled,  and  when  she 
brushed  back  the  hair  which  had  fallen  over  her  face 
in  the  encounter  it  showed  her  checks  aglow  from 
excitement. 

"Oh,  Andy,  didn't  he  fight?  Look  at  him.  He  must 
weigh  eight  or  ten  pounds."  And  probably  he  looked 
that  to  her.     But  Andy  shook  his  head. 

"Bass  no  weigh  that  much,"  he  said. 

"  But  he's  a  big  one,  isn't  he?  " 

Andy  nodded  his  head  and  stared  cnviou.sly  at  the 
plump  fish  lying  in  Gabriclle's  canoe.  Her  success  had 
unsettled  the  Indian.  It  was  well  enough  to  sit  and 
fish  all  day  without  any  luck — he  could  do  that  with 
stolid  indii-fcrencc — but  when  some  one  else  came  along 
and  caught  a  fish  right  under  his  nose,  that  was  a  cruel 
blow.  And  then  the  aborigine  was  hungry.  He  was 
very  hungry.  He  had  eaten  nothing  since  early  morn- 
ing, before  he  left  the  island,  and  the  sight  of  that  fish 
set  his  stomach  rumbling. 

Gabrielle  was  quick  to  read  the  wistful  look  on  his 
face. 

"Tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Andy.  I'll  give  him  to  you 
if  you'll  bring  me  a  pair  of  moccasins  the  next  time  you 
come  over.     A  real   nice  pair,  mind,"  as  she   looked 


h 


li 


2& 


,t: 


13 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


down  at  her  prize  and  saw  the  sacrifice  she  was  mak- 
ing-.    "  Beads  and  all  on  'em,  and  the  best  of  buckskin." 

"  All  right.  Me  fetch  'em."  And  the  bass  was  lifted 
from  Gabrielle's  canoe  into  Andy's. 

The  Indian  was  too  anxious  to  get  away  and  cook  his 
fish  to  remain  any  long-er,  and  the  shadows  were  bj'-  this 
time  beginning  to  creep  about  the  river,  so  that 
Gabrielle  did  not  care  to  stay  to  try  her  luck  again. 

"  Mind  you  don't  forget  about  the  moccasins,  Andy," 
she  shouted  as  they  were  paddling  off  in  opposite  direc- 
tions. But  Andy  either  did  not  hear  her  or  else  was 
too  much  absorbed  in  the  prospect  of  his  coming  meal 
to  answer.  Pie  paddled  away  toward  the  mouth  of  the 
river  without  a  word,  and  was  presently  lost  to  sight  at 
the  next  bend. 

"Oh,  mother,"  shouted  Gabrielle  a  few  minutes  later 
as  she  burst  into  the  open  door  of  the  cabin,  "  I  caught 
a  bass  that  long,"  measuring  with  her  hands. 

"Where  is  it?  "  asked  her  mother. 

Gabrielle  knew  there  was  a  storm  coming,  and 
hesitated.  "  Oh — I  let — one-eyed  Andy,  the  Indian, 
have  it." 

*'  Let  him  have  it?  What  for?  "  turning  and  lookmg 
at  the  girl  in  surprise. 

Gabrielle  pretended  to  be  deeply  absorbed  in  the 
occupation  of  arranging  her  fish-line  on  the  little  shelf 
back  of  the  stove,  and  rather  furtively  answeiod;  "  He 
is  going  to  bring  me  a  pair  of  moccasins  the  next  time 
he  comes  over.  Besides,"  she  quickly  added,  as  she 
saw  her  mother's  face,  "he  was  hungry." 

"Moccasins!  Hungry!  The  vile  wretch  that  he  is! 
xVnd  you're  simple  enough  to  let  him  wheedle  you  out 
of  the  fish.     As  if  he'll  ever  bring  you  the  moccasins, 


THE    INDIAN    AND    THE    FISH. 


13 


the  old  heathen.  And  anyhow  what  can  yon  do  with 
moccasins?  Do  you  want  to  turn  yourself  into  a  yoiinij 
squaw,  wearing-  such  things  as  them?  I'm  out  of  all 
manner  of  patience  with  you.  First  thing  I  know  you'll 
be  triggin'  your  brother  Dinnie  here  up  in  some  out- 
landish suit  more  fit  for  a  wild  man  than  for  civilized 
bein's."  She  was  always  afraid  Gabrielle  would  con- 
taminate Dcnnie. 

As  soon  as  Gabrielle  could  make  an  excuse  she  slipped 
out  of  doors,  and  Dennie,  who  probably  never  had 
thought  about  moccasins  till  he  heard  his  mother  speak, 
slyly  followed  his  sister  and  whispered: 

"  Gabe,  next  you  catch  a  bass  you'll  get  me  a  pair  of 
moccasins,  won't  you? " 

**  Hush,  Dennie,  mother'll  hear  you." 

"  But  you'll  get  'em,  won't  you,  Gabe? " 

"  Don't  know.  I'll  see.  You  must  mind  what  mother 
says." 

But  she  showed  her  own  mind  in  the  matter  by  mut- 
tering' to  herself  as  she  walked  away  dow*^  the  path 
toward  the  stable,  "  I'll  have  them  moccasins,  and  I'll 
wear  'em  too;  that  is,"  she  added,  "if  father  says  it's 
all  right." 


III. 


THE   McFARLANES. 

T^HE  Widow  McFarlane  lived  about  half  a  mile  north 
-■■  of  the  McGlorries,  on  a  tract  of  land  left  by  her 
husband,  who  had  been  killed  by  a  falling  tree  shortly 
after  they  came  to  the  Nonquon.  She  had  a  son, 
Donald,  or,  as  she  in  her  good  Scotch  dialect  called  him, 
"  Tone-alt,"  and  he  was  the  apple  of  her  eye. 

"  My  son  Tone-alt — I'm  sure  I  canna*  tell  what  he 
would  be  doing  without  me,"  meaning,  of  course,  that 
she  could  not  tell  what  she  would  do  without  her  son 
Donald,  for  the  good  woman  invariably  got  the  "  cart 
before  the  horse  "  whenever  she  essayed  the  English 
language. 

Donald  merited  his  mother's  favor.  He  was  a  brawny 
Scotch  lad,  with  gray  full-cloth  apparel,  a  rather  heavy 
gait,  and  a  big,  tender  heart.  If  he  had  a  failing  it  was 
bashfulness.  He  was  shy  of  everybody,  and  more  par- 
ticularly so  of  the  little  girl  with  the  black  eyes  down 
by  the  river.  As  for  Gabrielle's  sentiments  toward 
Donald — well,  we  shall  see. 

"  Tone-alt!  Tone-alt!  "  shouted  Mrs.  McFarlane  one 
day  as,  Donald  was  struggling  with  a  plow  among  the 
roots  and  stumps  and  stones  of  a  new  clearing  some  dis- 
tance from  the  house.  "  Tone-alt,  is  Towser  down  in 
the  field  with  you?  I  want  him  here.  The  old  black 
soo,  she  is  in  the  garden."  ^ 

"  Yes,  Towser  is  here,  mother;  but  you'd  best  let  me 

(14) 


THE    MCFARLANES. 


la 


1 


come  and  drive  out  the  sow.  You  know  she's  a  stub- 
born brute,  and  I'm  afraid  you  and  the  dog  can't  do  it." 

"  Yes,  we  can.  Go  you  on  with  your  plooing,  Tone- 
alt.  Here,  Towser!  Towser!  Towser!  Here,  Towser! 
sic,  sic,  si-boy!  " 

And  away  the  faithful  Towser,  a  peart,  gamy  fel- 
low, with  one  ear  standing  straight  up  and  the  other 
lopping  over  the  side  of  his  head,  started  for  the 
garden. 

And  now  began  a  chase  which  was  to  become  mem- 
orable in  the  history  of  Mrs.  McFarlane.  The  sow  was 
a  long-nosed  brute,  with  a  vicious  little  eye,  and  a  bris- 
tling disposition  to  oppose  everything  human,  Mrs. 
McFarlane  pointed  out  to  Towser  the  hole  in  the  fence 
where  the  sow  had  entered,  and  the  sagacious  dog 
headed  the  animal  in  that  direction.  Away  they  went 
like  the  wind,  the  sow  evidently  realizing  that  there 
was  a  scrimmage  in  store  for  her,  and  willing  to  enter 
heartily  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing. 

"Si — b-o-y!  Si — b-o-y!  Sic,  sic,  si — b-o-y!  "  shouted 
Mrs.  McFarlane,  clapping  her  hands  to  urge  on  the 
dog.  She  consoled  herself  for  the  way  they  were  tear- 
ing up  the  newly  planted  garden-beds  by  seeing  the 
rapid  progress  they  were  making  toward  the  hole.  But 
alas  for  human  hopes  where  there  is  a  black  sow  in  the 
question.  Mrs.  McFarlane  was  dumfounded  to  see 
the  animal  shoot  past  the  hole  in  the  fence  and 
scamper  away  up  the  other  side  of  the  garden,  digging 
up  the  black,  moist  earth  with  her  feet,  and  scattering 
destruction  among  the  seeds  and  plants.  Towser  mis- 
took his  mistress'  wild  gesticulations  for  a  vigorous 
encouragement  to  follow  up  the  chase,  and  accordingly 
yelped  and   barked   after  the  fying  sow  as  if  his  life 


"1 


16 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


depended  on  it.  Before  Mrs.  McFarlane — who  struck 
out  across  the  garden  to  intercept  them,  holding  her 
impeding  skirts  up  in  front  of  her  with  one  hand  and 
viciously  waving  the  other  in  the  air  in  tune  with  her 
imprecations — before  she  could  head  them  off,  they  had 
made  the  circuit  of  the  garden  and  were  flying  past  the 
hole  a  second  time.  This  was  maddening  to  the  old 
woman,  who  saw  that  every  jump  of  the  sow  meant  so 
much  ruin  to  her  garden.  She  stood  still  a  moment, 
with  hands  on  her  hips  and  nearly  out  of  breath,  but 
using  what  little  she  had  in  heaping  maledictions  on 
both  sow  and  dog.  If  her  terrible  tirade — some  En- 
glish, some  Scotch,  and  the  rest  a  confused  medley 
between  the  two — were  possible  of  presentation  with 
the  pen  it  would  give  us  pleasure  to  record  it;  but  we 
retreat  from  the  attempt  in  despair.  Her  head  was 
covered  with  a  red  kerchief  tied  in  the  prevailing 
fashion  of  pioneer  farm -women,  and  the  loose  ends 
were  blown  by  the  breeze  in  concert  with  the  tempest 
of  her  tongue.  Soon  she  ceased  her  shrill  screaming  and, 
struck  with  a  new  determination,  started  toward  the 
hole  in  the  fence,  muttering  to  herself  and  shaking  her 
head  in  a  way  that  boded  not  well  for  the  sow,  pro- 
vided Mrs.  McFarlane's  project  turned  not  amiss. 

She  planted  herself  sternly  on  the  far  side  of  the 
hole,  near  the  fence,  in  the  exact  tracks  made  by  the 
sow,  determined  to  head  her  off  at  whatever  cost.  The 
animals  were  tearing  down  in  her  direction,  and  she 
grimly  chuckled  to  herself  at  the  thought  of  the  sow's 
disappointment  when  she  found  herself  checked  at 
last. 

"  I  will  be  breaking  her  nose,  the  old  hussy,  if  she 
will  not  stop." 


■ 


THE    MCFARLANES. 


17 


/ 


As  the  sow  nearcd  the  hole,  Mrs.  McFarlane  began  a 
vigorous  waving  of  the  hands  and  a  loud  shouting. 

"Si— b-o-y!  Si— b-o-y!  Oh,  you  old  hussy!  I'll 
have  you  to  know — " 

But  alas,  and  alas,  we  are  never  to  learn  what  Mrs. 
McFarlane  would  have  the  old  sow  to  know.  Driven 
to  a  blind  desperation  by  the  long  chase,  the  animal 
bore  down  on  the  good  woman  without  the  slightest 
deviation  to  the  right  or  left,  and  with  a  dogged  desire 
to  follow  in  her  old  tracks,  she  rushed  between  Mrs. 
McFarlane's  feet.  She  was  going  at  a  terrific  pace,  and 
her  long  snout  caught  in  the  stout  flannel  skirts  and 
brought  the  good  dame  pell-mell  face  down  on  the  old 
sow's  back.  Being  a  lusty  brute,  she  bore  up  bravely 
under  Mrs.  McFarlane's  weight,  for  the  Scotch  woman 
was  mostly  skin  and  bone,  with  little  flesh.  And  then 
began  a  furious  struggle.  The  sow,  blinded  by  rage  and 
by  Mrs.  ATcFarlane's  skirts,  tore  madly  about,  emitting 
the  while  a  variety  of  the  most  unearthly  squeals  that 
ever  came  from  even  an  old  black  sow.  Mrs.  McFar- 
lane, no  less  enraged  than  the  sow  at  finding  herself  in 
this  predicament,  seized  with  one  hand  the  curly  tail 
which  was  waving  perilously  close  to  her  face,  and  with 
the  other  belabored  the  muddy  hams  of  her  enemy. 
To  make  matters  worse,  Towser,  wlio  had  now  gained 
on  the  struggling  sow,  mistook  the  fluttering  end  of 
Mrs.  McFarlane's  kerchief  for  the  sow's  tail,  perhaps, 
and  seizing  hold,  tugged  away  with  such  might  and 
main  that  it  drove  the  good  woman  well-nigh  dis- 
tracted. And  thus  Mrs.  McFarlane  worried  the  sow, 
and  both  the  sow  and  dog  worried  Mrs.  McFarlane; 
till  at  last,  the  sow  giving  out  under  her  burden,  they 

all  fell  in  an  inglorious  heap  in  the  midst  of  a  soft  black 
a 


18 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


bed  of  onion-seed.  We  must  here,  in  consideration  of 
Mrs.  McFarlane,  draw  the  curtain,  with  the  sufficient 
assurance  that  a  vigorous  application  of  her  boot-heels 
on  the  old  sow's  hide  eventually  brought  her  release. 

Donald,  hearing  such  a  prodigious  squealing,  and 
guessing  at  something  of  the  truth,  came  up  to  put  out 
the  sow,  and  the  perversity  of  the  breed  was  never 
shown  to  better  advantage  than  by  the  old  tyrant 
walking  straight  to  the  hole  and  crowding  her  reeking 
body  through.  She  had  evidently  known  where  the 
hole  was  all  the  while,  and  now,  content  with  the  mis- 
chief she  had  done,  was  willing  to  go  out. 

Mrs.  McFarlane  rose  from  the  onion-bed  and  stood 
besmeared  with  mud,  even  to  a  great  daub  on  the  side 
of  her  face.  She  was  bedraggled,  and  bruised,  and  out 
of  breath,  but  her  eye  lost  none  of  its  vim,  and  her 
voice  none  of  its  vigor,  as  she  pointed  a  trembling, 
bony  finger  in  the  direction  of  the  sow  and  said: 

"  Tone-alt,  the  old  soo,  she  will  be  kilt  on  the  mor- 
row. Go  you  and  tell  Mr.  McGlorrie.  He  will  help 
you  kill  her.     The  old  hussy!  " 

But  Donald  simply  smiled,  with  a  sly  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  and  he  did  not  go  for  Mr.  McGlorrie.  Well  he 
knew  that,  so  far  as  his  mother  was  concerned,  the  old 
sow  would  live  for  many  a  day  to  bless  her  age  and 
generation.     And  so  she  did. 


t 


IV. 
THE   VILLAGERS. 


If 


nPHE  Nonquon  village  lay  a  short  distance  up  the 
■^  river  from  the  McGlorries,  and  contained  as 
unique  a  set  of  characters  as  ever  got  together  in  a 
place  of  its  size.  Gabrielle  was  always  sure  of  a  tilt 
with  some  of  them  whenever  she  entered  the  place,  for 
she  was  a  quick-tongued  girl  and  full  of  fun.  Her 
especial  victim  was  an  individual  who  went  by  the 
name  of  Brown,  *'  B'gob-sir  "  Brown,  as  he  was  called. 
He  was  an  inoffensive,  boastful  old  fellow,  who  had 
dropped  into  the  village  tavern  one  day,  and  had  been 
hanging  around  there  ever  since,  doing  odd  chores  for 
his  living — and  liquor.  No  one  knew  what  his  real  name 
was.  On  his  first  arrival  in  the  place,  as  he  stepped 
into  the  bar-room  and  called  for  a  drink  in  his  pompous 
way,  Jerry,  the  tavern-keeper,  asked  him  his  name. 

"Why,  b'gob-sir,  you  kin  call  me  Brown  if  you  like." 
And  Brown  it  was  till  one  day  Gabrielle's  quick  wit 
seized  on  his  favorite  by-word  and  christened  him 
B'gob-sir.  Ever  since  that  he  had  been  called  "Old 
B'gob-sir  "  oftener  than  anything  else. 

"  Now,  Gabe,  what  the  dickens  you  doin'  down  here 
so  early  in  the  day? "  he  called  to  Gabrielle  one  morn- 
ing as  she  came  into  the  village. 

"You  'tend  to  your  business  and  I'll  'tend  to  mine," 
was  the  laconic  reply  as  she  was  turning  toward  the 
store. 

(19) 


20 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


"Oh,  I  know  what's  the  matter  with  yoii,  Gabe; 
you're  goin'  over  to  see  old  Prosper  and  make  eyes  at 
him.  Them  big  black  eyes  o'  yours  '11  get  you  into 
trouble  some  day.  Prosper  ain't  no  spring  chicken^  let 
me  tell  you,  and  his  wife  is  alive  and  well." 

The  individual  referred  to  was  the  village  store- 
keeper. Besides  that,  he  was  the  local  preacher,  class- 
leader,  and  vSunday-school  superintendent.  This  was 
on  Sunday,  On  Monday  morning  he  traded  horses, 
and  did  it  with  all  the  due  accompaniments  of  the 
business. 

Gabrielle  had  little  respect  for  any  of  the  villagers, 
but  she  had  less  for  Prosper  Tryne  than  any  one  else. 
She  hated  him.  B'gob-sir  knew  this,  and  chuckled  at 
his  own  remark.  "  Look  at  your  eyes  now,"  he  added; 
"they're  dancin'  already," 

They  were  dancing  somewhat,  but  with  a  light  in 
them  that  boded  not  well  for  B'gob-sir. 

"Speakin'  of  eyes,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  I've  often 
wondered  what  color  yours  was," 

B'gob-sir  was  thrown  completely  off  his  guard.  He 
was  flattered, 

"Mine?  Why,  what  difference  does  that  make?" — 
grinning  in  a  foolish  way,  "  Shouldn't  make  no 
diff'rence  with  an  old  feller  like  me,  should  it?  Now, 
Gabe,  why  don't  you  look  for  yourself  and  see  what 
color  they  be,  if  you  want  to  know  so  bad? " 

"Can't  do  it," 

"  Can't  do  it?    What  do  you  mean?  " 

"Can't  see  'em." 

"  Now,  Gabe,  what  the  dickens  you  gittin'  at?  Why 
can't  you  see  'em?" 

"  'Cause  I  can't." 


\ 


I 


THE    VILLAGERS. 


21 


"Well,  bill — now  what  in  the  name  o'  snakes — why, 
what's  to  hendcr  you  from  scein'  'em?" 
"  Your  nose." 

"Your  nose.  Say,  have  you  ever  thoug^ht  what  a 
well-balanced  man  you  are,  B'g-ob-sir?  Your  nose  is 
about  the  size  of  your  feet,  and  your  feet  are  about  the 
size  of  all  out  doors." 

B'^ob-sir  was  staring  at  her  and  catching  for  breath. 

"  And  that  ain't  all,"  she  rattled  on.  "  Your  nose  and 
your  boots  match  in  other  ways  as  well  as  in  size. 
They're  both  red.  Look  at  'em  and  see!  You've 
used  too  much  whisky  and  too  little  tallow  for  the  good 
of  'em  both.  You'd  best  stop  paintin'  your  nose  with 
liquor  and  spend  more  of  your  time  in  greasin'  your 
boots  with  tallow.  Good-by.  See  you  later."  And 
she  was  away  before  he  could  muster  a  reply. 

"  That  girl  has  got  the  all-firedest  sharpest  tongue  in 
her  head  I  ever  heard  tell  of,"  he  muttered  to  himself 
as  he  went  pottering  back  into  the  bar-room. 

Prosper  smiled  at  her  from  behind  the  counter  as  she 
entered  the  store  door,  and  broke  out:  "  Well,  if  that 
ain't  strange!  I've  been  thinkin'  about  you  all  the 
mornirj'.  Have  jest  been  a-wonderin'  if  we  couldn't 
git  you  to  come  and  sing  in  the  church.  We're  talkin' 
of  gittin'  up  a  choir,  and  I  believe  if  you'd  join  all  the 
rest  would,  and  we'd  have  a  real  rousin'  choir.  What 
think  you?" 

Gabrielle  shook  her  head,  and  began  to  examine 
some  rope  for  a  clothes-line.  "I  can't  sing,"  she 
answered,  in  an  evasive  way.  "  How  much  is  this 
clothes-line? " 

"  Oh,  tut  now,  I've  heard  you  sing  often  enough.     I 


22 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


could  tell  your  voice  above  all  the  others  the  night  of 
the  sleigh-ride  party  last  winter,  when  you  drove 
through  the  village.  But  I  couldn't  help  a-thinkin','' 
he  added,  with  a  pious  tone  creeping  into  the  words, 
**  that  it  was  carryin'  the  thing  a  little  too  far  for  you 
young  folks  to  be  out  so  late  on  a  Saturday  night  singin' 
that  kind  of  a  song.  It  must  *  a '  been  nigh  Sunday 
when  you  drove  through  here,  and  *  We  won't  go  home 
till  morning'  ain't  a  very  nice  song  for  Sunday." 

"  How  did  you  come  to  be  up  at  that  time  o'  night  ? " 
she  asked,  with  a  curl  of  her  lip. 

"  Oh,  preparin'  my  Sunday-school  lesson.  I  always 
go  over  that  the  last  thing  Saturday  night,  and  some- 
times it  keeps  me  up  late." 

"  Do  you  prepare  your  Sunday-school  lesson  out  in 
the  stable?"  He  looked  at  her  with  a  start,  but  she 
continued,  "  And  do  you  go  over  it  with  a  sharp  file? 
And  do  you  learn  it  by  looking  into  your  horse's  mouth, 
and  rasping  down  his  front  teeth  to  make  him  look 
younger,  so  he'll  trade  better  Monday  morning? " 

"  Why,  Gabrielle,  what  do  you  mean? " 

"  Oh,  you'd  better  shut  the  stable  door  next  time,  and 
not  hang  the  lantern  so  high.  But  you  haven't  told  me 
yet  how  much  this  clothes-line  is." 

He  was  glad  to  change  the  subject. 

"  The  price  is  25  cents,  but  I'll  let  you  have  it  for  20, 
and  cheap,  I  can  tell  you.     Them  lines  cost  me —  " 

"  Here's  your  money,"  interposed  Gabrielle,  and 
started  for  the  door. 

"  But  ain't  you  goin'  to  let  me  have  your  name  for  the 
choir?"  he  asked,  as  she  was  leaving. 

"  No;  I  told  you  I  didn't  want  to." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  I  can  see  the  reason  you  act  this  way. 


t 


THE   VILLAGERS. 


23 


You  used  to  like  to  come  to  our  church  all  right  enough, 
but  by  the  way  things  looks  now  I'm  afraid  the  Presby- 
terians '11  git  you  before  long.  You'll  be  goin'  to  their 
church  up  in  the  Scotch  settlement  perty  soon  if  what 
folks  says  is  true.  They  say  that  you  and  Donald 
McFarlane  is — " 

But  she  slammed  the  door  and  was  gone. 

'•  That  Gabrielle  McGlorrie  is  an  impertinent  little 
minx,"  Prosper  remarked  to  his  wife  as  she  came  into 
the  store  a  few  minutes  later.  The  wife  had  come  to 
tell  him  that  she  was  out  of  stove-wood,  and  she  did 
not  propose  to  split  any  more  herself  while  he  was 
hanging  around  in  the  store  doing  nothing. 

"  You  can  either  go  without  your  dinner  or  else  split 
me  some  wood,"  she  had  said. 

"  Ain't  there  any  chips  you  can  pick  up  around? "  he 
ventured. 

"  No,"  answered  the  neglected  wife,  "  I've  been 
pickin'  up  chips  till  there  ain't  any  more  to  pick,  and 
I've  split  my  own  wood  till  my  hands  are  all  blistered, 
and  I  ain't  going  to  do  it  any  longer.  If  you  can't  split 
wood  you  can't  eat,  that's  all." 

"  All  right,  I'll  go  out  and  split  some  in  a  minute,"  he 
was  forced  to  say.  And  then  he  ventured  the  afore- 
said remark  about  Gabrielle's  impertinence. 

"  Well,  I'll  warrant  you  said  something  to  make  her 
impertinent,"  his  wife  retorted.  "  I  never  heard  any  of 
her  impertinence,  and  I  guess  you  wouldn't  if  you'd 
leave  her  alone.  The  trouble  with  you  is  that  she's  got 
too  sharp  a  tongue  for  you,  and  she  knows  enough  to  use 
it  too  when  either  you  or  old  B 'gob-sir  try  to  tease  her. 
I'm  glad  she  can  take  her  own  part.  Come  now,  I'll 
tend  the  store  while  you  go  out  and  split  that  wood." 


•) 


•^4 


THE    HF.RMIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


Prosper  shuffled  out  into  the  yard,  and  looke^  around 
for  some  easy  sticks  to  split,  l)Ut  he  could  not  find  any. 
His  wife,  poor  soul,  had  picked  out  the  easy  ones  lonj^;-  a^o. 

Mrs.  Trync  had  n(;t  been  in  possession  of  the  store 
long  when  a  small  thin  man,  with  a  peaceful  expres- 
sion of  countenance,  entered. 

"Hello,  Mrs.  Tryne,"  he  said,  "you  keepin'  store  all 
alone  to-day?    Where's  Prosper? " 

"  He's  out  splittin'  up  S(mie  wood.  You're  cpiite  a 
stranger.  Philander;  we  don't  see  no  more  of  you  'n  's  if 
you  lived  a  mile  away.  Why  ain't  you  more  neigh- 
borly? " 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  Pm  perty  busy  these  days. 
Been  so  all  spring.  First  of  all  it  kep'  me  goin'  lookin' 
after  my  mushrat  traps,  and  when  I  got  them  all  took 
up  then  my  gardcnin'  begun,  and  it  seems  's  if  the 
weeds  wasn't  goin'  to  give  a  man  a  might  o'  peace  all 
this  summer." 

"  How  does  your  garden  look? " 

"  Oh,  torble  well,  considerin'  the  dry  spell.  But  I 
believe  we're  goin'  to  have  rain  by  the  way  the  sky 
looks.  I  can  almost  smell  it  in  the  air,"  he  added, 
going  to  the  door  and  looking  at  the  clouds. 

Philander  Hunt  was  a  bachelor  who  lived  alone  in  a 
small  shanty  across-lots  from  the  Trynes.  He  made 
his  living  by  shooting,  trapping,  fishing,  and  gardening, 
and  was  one  of  the  few  villagers  with  whom  Gabrielle 
got  on  well.  To  be  sure  he  took  her  to  task  for 
"  breakin'  the  hearts  of  all  the  young  fellers  round  the 
Nonquon,"  and  she  in  turn  teased  him  about  the  Widow 
Farley,  who  lived  next  door  to  the  Trynes,  and  who  had  a 
constant  eye  on  the  bachelor.  But  they  understood 
each  other  and  were  the  best  of  friends. 


'i 


THK    VIl.r.Af'.ERS.  SSO 

"  You  can't  tell  mc  anythinj^  mean  about  Gabc,"  he 
would  say  to  a  chance  )^roup  of  villagers  who  might  be 
discussing  Gabriclle,  which  they  often  did.  '*  You 
can't  show  mc  where  she  ever  done  a  mean  trick  in  her 
life.  She's  wild  sometimes,  mebbe,  and  so  is  a  young 
fawn,  but  I  never  heard  tell  that  anybody  thought  the 
less  of  a  fawn  for  being  a  little  wild.  One  thing  I  want 
to  say,  she  ain't  no  wolf  in  the  skin  of  a  sheep,  like  some 
folks  I  know."  Which  probably  had  reference  to  his 
neighbor  the  store-keeper,  and  possibly  accounted  as 
much  as  anything  for  the  fact  that  he  had  been  '*  quite  a 
stranger  "  to  the  Trynes. 

As  for  Gabrielle,  her  opinion  of  Philander  was 
summed  up  briefly  in  this  wise:  "  He's  the  best  one  of  the 
whole  lot,  and  he's  going  to  take  me  with  him  on  one 
of  his  trips  over  to  the  ma'sh  creek  this  fall  when  he 
goes  to  look  after  his  traps." 


! 


V. 

THE   WILD   MAN. 

/^NE  evening  in  the  early  part  of  June,  when  the 
^-^  soft,  sweet  fragrance  of  summer  had  begun  to 
permeate  the  woods  and  fields,  Bonaventure  sat  in  front 
of  his  cabin  smoking  his  pipe.  The  air  was  mellow 
after  a  day  of  warm  sunshine.  The  tree-toads  down  in 
ihe  swamp  screeched  an  accompaniment  to  the  shrill 
song  of  the  whip-poor-will,  and  the  crickets  chirped 
here  and  there  among  the  growing  grass.  Once  in  a 
while  a  venturesome  mosquito  dared  the  tobacco-smoke, 
and  sang  about  Bonaventure's  ears  or  lit  on  the  back  of 
his  hand.  A  lone  cow  bawled  in  the  distance,  and  the 
dull  rumble  of  a  heavy  wagon  creeping  slowly — so 
slowly  that  it  was  probably  drawn  by  a  yoke  of  plod- 
ding oxen — over  the  hill  to  the  north  jarred  upon  the 
quiet  air.  Some  fowls,  roosting  in  the  low  branches  of 
a  clump  of  evergreens  down  by  the  stable,  now  and 
then  broke  out  into  plaintive  mutterings  when  dis- 
turbed by  the  crowding  of  their  fellows,  and  a  couple 
of  pigs  grunted  and  snored  contentedly  in  a  corner  of 
the  zigzag  rail  fence. 

Presently  Bonaventure  heard  footsteps  coming  down 
the  path  from  the  road,  with  voices  accompanying, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  immense  frame  of  old  B 'gob- 
sir  hove  in  sight,  followed  by  Philander  and  Donald 
McFarlane.  Donald's  mother  had  sent  him  down  to 
see  if  he   could  borrow   Mr.  McGlorrie's  potash  ket- 

(86) 


THE    WILD   MAN. 


27 


tie;  and  it  may  be  remarked  in  passing  that  this  kettle 
was  the  bane  of  Donald's  life.  His  mother  seemingly 
had  more  uses  for  a  potash  kettle  than  any  one  else 
ever  heard  tell  of,  and  not  being  prosperous  enough  to 
own  one  herself,  she  was  perpetually  importuning 
Donald  in  this  wise:  "Go  you  down,  Tone-alt,  and 
borrow  Mr.  McGlorrie's  kettle.  I  will  be  making  soap 
on  the  morrow." 

While  Donald  was  for  some  reasons  not  loath  to  visit 
the  McGlorries,  yet  this  incessant  application  for  the 
kettle  was  becoming  a  sore  trial  to  him.  He  was  won- 
dering all  the  while  what  opinion  the  McGlorries  would 
have  of  a  yoimg  man  who  was  always  running  after  a 
potash  kettle.  To-night  he  had  met  B 'gob-sir  and  Phi- 
lander as  they  were  turning  into  Bonaventure's,  and 
was  glad  of  their  company.  He  could  face  Mr.  Mc- 
Glorrie  with  less  stammering  when  they  were  present, 
and  he  thought  he  could  face  a  certain  other  person 
with  less  palpitation  of  the  heart. 

"Good-evening,  gentlemen,"  cheerily  said  Bonavent- 
ure.  "  Come  in.  Come  right  inside  and  sit  down,"  he 
added,  rising  to  go  indoors, 

"  No,  no,"  remonstrated  B'gob-sir.  "  Keep  your  seat. 
I'd  ruther  sit  out-doors  any  time  than  go  inside  such  a 
night  as  this." 

"  Yes,"  said  Philander,  "  we'll  sit  down  out  here,  where 
we  can  hear  the  frogs  booming  down  in  the  river." 

Donald  said  nothing. 

"Here,  Gabrielle,"  called  Bonavcnture,  "bring  out 
some  chairs." 

Gabrielle  rushed  to  the  open  door  of  the  cabin,  sing- 
ing out  in  her  lively  way:  "  Hcllu!  B'gob-sir.  Hello! 
Philan—  " 


28 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON, 


But  just  here  she  checked  herself,  and  her  jauntmess 
fell  like  the  spirit  of  a  sensitive-plant  touched  with  a 
sudden  dash  of  cold  water.  She  had  noticed  a  third 
party,  and  seen  who  he  was,  and  she  quickly  turned  and 
went  for  the  chairs.  She  brought  out  two  and  handed 
them  to  B'gob-sir  and  Philander,  and  then  stood  lean- 
ing in  a  constrained  manner  against  the  doorcase,  try- 
ing to  look  unconscious. 

"  Gabrielle,  girl,  what  are  you  thinking  of  ? "  said  her 
father.     "  Why  don't  you  bring  out  one  for  Donald? " 

Had  it  been  daylight,  Philander,  who  was  looking 
curiously  at  her,  would  have  seen  her  face  painfully 
flush  as  she  turned  slowly  away  to  get  the  chair.  She 
passed  the  chair  to  B'gob-sir,  who  in  turn  passed  it  to 
Philander,  and  he  to  Donald.  The  seat  somehow  did 
not  seem  comfortable  to  Donald,  and  Gabrielle,  not 
deigning  to  get  one  for  herself,  sank  quietly  down  on 
the  doorstep  between  her  father  and  B'gob-sir,  where 
she  was  hidden  from  view. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think,"  said  the  old  fellow  with 
the  big  nose  and  feet,  addressing  Bonaventure,  "  Phi- 
lander has  jest  been  fillin'me  full  again  about  that  wild 
man  he  seen  over  in  the  ma'sh  this  spring.  That's 
about  the  fishiest  thing  Philander  ever  told,  and  I'm 
kinder  surprised  at  him  fixin'  up  such  a  story  as  that." 

"That  story  ain't  fixed  up,  I  want  you  to  understand," 
retorted  Philander  with  some  significance.  "  I  don't 
know  whether  you'd  call  it  a  wild  man  or  what  you'd 
call  it,  but  I  seen  something  the  likes  o'  what  Pd  never 
seen  before,  and  hope  to  never  see  again." 

Bonaventure  was  much  impressed  with  Philander's 
evident  earnestness.  He  had  heard  vague  rumors  of 
something  having  been  seen  by  hunters  over  in  the 


THE    WILD   MAN. 


29 


i 


larg'e  tract  of  dense  forest  called  the  marsh,  but  had 
paid  little  heed  to  them  till  now.  He  knew,  '  owcver, 
that  Philander  was  no  sensationalist,  and  hitching  his 
chair  around  to  face  him,  asked  what  he  had  seen. 

"  I  don't  like  to  say  much  about  the  thing,"  said 
Philander  with  some  diffidence,  **  because  nobody  ain't 
goin'  to  believe  what  I  say  till  they  see  it  for  them- 
selves; and  I  hope  to  gracious  no  on<^*ll  ever  see  it." 

Here  B'gob-sir  broke  out  into  a  derisive  laugh,  and 
loftily  requested  to  be  taken  to  the  spot  at  once. 
"  B'gob-sir,  I'd  like  to  see  the  thing  that  would  make  a 
cow\ard  of  me.  I'm  goin'  to  ferret  this  thing  out  some 
day."  He  made  the  "  some  day  "  sound  conveniently 
vague  and  distant,  as  he  sat  comfortably  back  in  his 
chair  in  front  of  Bonaventure's  cabin  in  the  safety  of 
companionship. 

"  Well,  tell  us  about  it,"  persisted  Bonaventure, 
ignoring  the  boastful  figure  at  his  side. 

"  If  none  of  you'll  say  anything  about  it  on  the  out- 
side, I'll  tell  you  the  whole  thing,"  said  Philander,  after 
a  slight  pause;  and  then  proceeded: 

"  You  know  the  Nonquon  River  takes  a  big  turn,  so 
that  if  you  start  up-stream  from  the  village  you  go 
west  a  mile  or  two,  and  then  a  branch  winds  around  to 
the  north,  and  finally  northeast.  If  you  want  to  strike 
the  stream  up  near  its  head,  where  it's  called  Eraser's 
Creek,  you  take  a  short  cut  a  couple  of  miles  north  of 
here,  and  then  strike  in  due  nor'west  for  about  the  same 
distance.  That  is,  you'd  reach  it  if  you  foUered  the 
line,  but  I  never  knew  any  one  yet  that  could  f oiler  it. 
It's  the  roughest  piece  o'  country  over  around  that  way 
that  ever  lay  out-doors.  And  the  fact  is  that  it  was  in 
the  edge  of  that  rough  bit  of  land  that  I  seen  this — this 


30 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


thing.  I  don't  mind  tellin'  you  folks  that  it  wasn't  so 
far  away  as  the  ma'sh,  though  I  let  people  believe  it 
was.  If  I  told  'em  that  this  thing  was  over  near 
Fraser's  Creek,  only  four  or  five  miles  from  where  we 
sit  now,  they'd  laugh  at  me,  same's  B'gob-sir  done  a 
minute  ago.  But  it's  there,  whatever  it  is,"  he  added, 
with  conviction. 
"  How'd  you  come  to  see  it? "  asked  Bonaventure, 
"  Well,  I  was  follerin'  a  wolf-track  up  along  the  edge 
of  the  creek  one  afternoon  with  old  Sancho;  and  I  want 
to  say  right  here  that  he  is  the  best  dog  that  ever  put 
his  nose  to  the  ground,  even  if  he  did  git  scared  this 
time.  We  had  worked  along  up  about  as  far  as  it 
seemed  possible  to  go,  and  the  ground  was  rougher  at 
every  step.  I  didn't  see  how  even  an  animal  could  git 
through  it.  The  banks  was  steep  in  most  places,  and  a 
few  feet  in  from  the  shore  it  was  out  of  the  question 
tryin'  to  move  at  all.  Sancho  was  on  ahead,  smashin' 
through  the  brush  and  sniffin'  about,  when  all  at  once  I 
heard  him  give  a  yelp,  and  the  next  minute  he  come 
scurryin'  back  to  where  I  was,  with  his  tail  atween  his 
legs  and  his  hair  standin'  up  on  end,  the  worst  scared 
animal  you  ever  seen.  He  whined  and  growled,  and 
went  on  at  an  awful  rate,  and  one  minute  he'd  ruvsh 
into  the  brush  ahead,  and  then  he'd  come  boundin' 
back  again  more  excited  than  ever.  I  couldn't  make 
out  what  in  the  light  o'  the  sun  ailed  him,  for  I  never 
seen  that  dog  scared  before.  I  knowed  well  enough  it 
wasn't  the  wolf  he'd  seen,  because  he'd  tackle  a  wolf 
quicker'n  a  wink,  any  day;  and  so  I  follered  after  him, 
with  a  perty  tight  hold  o'  my  gun,  and  my  front  finger 
foolin'  'round  mighty  close  to  the  trigger,  I  can  tell 
you.     I  pushed  through  the  bushes,  and  soon  came  to  a 


\ 


{} 


THE    WILD    MAN. 


81 


I 


spot  that  was  a  little  more  open  and  clear  than  the  rest, 
but  I  couldn't  see  anything,  and  was  jest  goin'  to  call 
Sancho  an  old  fool,  when  I  noticed  him  sniffin'  around 
in  the  snow,  as  if  he  was  foUerin'  some  kind  of  a  track. 
I  went  up  to  where  he  was,  and  sure  enough  there  was 
the  track,  but  whatever  in  the  name  of  conscience  made 
it  I  couldn't  tell.  It  wasn't  like  anything  I  had  ever 
seen  before,  and  it  was  too  outlandish  big  for  any  kind 
of  an  animal  to  make.  It  hadn't  much  shape  to  it,  but 
looked  more  like  a  man's  track  thai,  anything  else,  and 
yet  it  didn't  look  like  a  man's  either.  I  didn't  know 
what  to  make  of  it,  but  thought  I'd  fuller  it  up  a  ways, 
and  see  what  become  of  it.  I  kept  gropin'  around 
after  it  in  and  out  among  the  bushes,  and  while  I  was 
doin'  so  I  remembered  about  Barlow  Dreeme  tcUin'  me 
that  he  had  seen  some  queer-lookin'  tracks  something 
like  these  over  in  the  piece  of  ma'sh  that  runs  up  this 
way.  They  was  tracks  like  what  might  be  made  by  a 
man's  foot  if  it  hadn't  any  boots  on,  but  was  all  wrapped 
up  in  some  kind  o'  cloth  or  other.  Well,  I  foUcred  'cm 
up  till  I  got  tired,  and  the  place  was  so  rough  I  called 
Sancho  back  and  started  for  home.  I  hadn't  gone  far 
before  I  come  plump  onto  the  wolf  whose  track  I  had 
seen  by  the  creek  comin'  up,  I  had  missed  him  in 
lookin'  for  the  strange  tracks,  and  we  neither  of  us  seen 
each  other  till  I  was  within  a  couple  o'  rods  of  him. 
He  stood  there  lookin'  at  me  kinder  startled  for  a  min- 
ute, as  an  animal  will  sometimes,  and  it  give  me  a  good 
chance  to  shoot  him.  I  brought  him  first  clip.  He 
jest  made  one  jump  into  the  air,  and  let  a  snarl  out  of 
him,  and  then  fell  flat  as  a  flounder.  But  what  to  do 
with  him  was  the  next  question.  It  was  gcttin'  too  late 
to  stay  and  skin  him,  and  I  was  too  tired  to  lug  his 


32 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


li   1 


carcass  home,  so  I  strung  him  up  to  the  limb  of  a  tree, 
and  trusted  to  luck  to  leave  him  there  till  mornin'. 

"  I  went  back  the  next  day  to  git  him,  but  he  was 
gone.  I  looked  around  and  seen  where  the  carcass  had 
been  dragged  through  the  snow,  and  in  follerin'  it  up  a 
ways  I  could  see  every  now  and  then  this  same  queer 
track  beside  the  trail,  showin'  that  my  wolf  had  been 
carried  away  by  the  same  thing  that  had  scared  Sancho 
the  day  before.  I  want  to  say  that  my  mind  hadn't 
been  off'n  them  tracks  much  o'  the  time  sence  I  had 
first  seen  'em,  and  novv^  I  was  bound  to  foUer  'em  up 
and  find  out  something  about  'em.  The  sun  was  shinin' 
bright  as  a  new  dollar,  and  it  had  snowed  jest 
enough  through  the  night  to  make  the  tracks  fresh. 
Sancho  was  snortin'  around,  with  his  big  ears  floppin' 
at  the  side  of  his  head,  and  his  tail  standin'  straight  up, 
as  if  he  was  ready  for  any  kind  o'  work.  vSo  I  put  him 
onto  the  trail,  and  away  we  went,  Sancho  ahead.  It 
wasn't  long  before  the  very  same  thing  happened  that 
did  the  day  before.  Sancho  came  boundin'  back  to 
where  I  was,  frightened  out  of  his  wits.  He  whined, 
and  shook,  and  crouched*  down  behind  my  legs,  till  I 
was  jest  betwixt  gittin'  mad  at  the  dog  and  gittin' 
scared  myself.  But  I  was  bound  to  see  what  it  all 
meant,  and  so  I  pushed  on  ahead,  though  I  couldn't 
make  the  dog  go  two  feet  in  front  of  me.  He  stuck 
right  to  my  heels,  and  when  I  tried  to  make  him  go  on 
he  whined,  and  set  down  on  his  haunches,  and  held  up 
one  of  his  front  feet  so  pitiful  that  I  let  him  foller." 

"Well,  you  was  a  perty  pair,  I  must  say,"  broke  in 
B'gob-sir,  who  felt  that  Philander  was  absorbing  the 
attention  of  the  little  group  around  him — Mrs.  McGlor- 
rie  was  standing  in  the  doorway  listening  with  the  rest 


I 


THE    WILD    MAN. 


33 


►  i 


— to  an  extent  altogether  unwarranted  by  his  impor- 
tance in  the  community.  *'  I  guess  the  dog's  master  was 
jest  as  frightened  as  the  dog,  if  the  truth  was  known." 

"  B'gob-sir,  you  keep  still,"  whispered  Gabriellc, 
plucking  his  sleeve,  "or  I'll  tell  about  the  time  I  put 
the  dead  rat  in  your  coat  pocket." 

B'gob-sir  subsided. 

"  I  don't  mind  admittin'  that  I  was  some  scared,"  Phi- 
lander went  on,  "but  if  I  was  scared  then,  I  was  a 
blamed  sight  more  scared  a  little  later  on.  I  heard  the 
brush  crack  in  front  o'  me,  and  Sancho  grcwled  and 
kinder  hung  back,  but  come  on  again  when  I  spoke  to 
him;  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  caught  sight  o'  something 
through  the  bushes,  but  couldn't  sec  enough  of  it  to 
tell  what  it  was  like.  It  was  skippin'  here  and  there 
quicker'n  a  flash,  and  however  it  managed  to  haul  the 
dead  wolf  around  over  the  logs  and  through  the  brush 
so  fast  was  morc'n  I  could  tell.  I  seen  I  wasn't  goin'  to 
overtake  it  very  easy  by  foUerin'  its  track,  so  I  cut  out 
around  to  head  it  off,  and  made  a  wide  half-circle  about 
the  brow  of  a  little  hill,  till  I  come  to  a  partly  open 
space  that  sloped  down  to  the  creek.  I  waited  in  the 
edge  of  this  for  a  spell  to  see  if  it  wouldn't  cross  the 
space,  but  began  to  think  I  had  miscalc'lated,  and  was 
jest  steppin'  from  behind  the  bushes,  when  I  saw  some- 
thing that  made  my  blood  run  colder'n  I  ever  want  to 
feel  it  again.  I  didn't  blame  the  dog  a  mite  for  bein' 
scared.  And  jest  here  I  want  to  say  to  you,"  said  Phi- 
lander, impressively,  after  a  slight  pause,  during  which 
he  was  watched  with  breathless  attention,  "  I  want  to 
say  that  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  was  I  saw.  Can't 
describe  it  to  save  my  life.  It  was  about  the  color  o' 
the  wolf  it  was  jerkin'  along  after  it,  but  was  more  like 


34 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


the  shape  of  a  man.  But  scch  a  lookiii'  creetur!  All 
hair  except  jest  its  two  eyes;  and  the  kind  of  eyes  you 
never  saw.  Wild  and  piercin'  as  two  coals  of  fire,  and 
big  as  tea-sassers.  It  stood  starin'  at  me  jest  a  second, 
and  then  it  dropped  the  wolf  and  darted  into  the  thick 
brush,  makin'  a  queer  kind  o'  noise,  and  that  was  the 
last  I  seen  of  it." 

**  Did  you  pick  up  your  wolf?"  asked  B'gob-sir. 

"  No-siree;  never  went  near  it.  I  got  out  of  that 
locality  about  as  quick  as  my  legs  would  carry  me. 
And  I've  never  been  there  sence — at  least  not  so  far  up 
as  I  went  that  day.  But  I  can't  get  that  thing  off  my 
mind,  and  some  day  I'm  goin'  to  search  it  out.  But  I 
ain't  goin'  alone,"  he  added,  as  he  thought  of  his  former 
experience. 

"Oh,  I'll  go  up  there  with  you,"  loftily  exclaimed 
B'gob-sir.  '*  I'll  go  and  see  what  the  dickens  this  is 
you're  makin'  so  much  fuss  about.  Why,  b'gob-sir,  if 
you  was  a  drinkin'  man.  Philander,  I'd  think  you'd  been 
tryin*  some  o'  Jerry's  whisky  the  day  you  went  up 
Eraser's  Creek,  and  it  had  give  you  the  jim-jams. 
That  last  lot  o'  whisky  Jerry  got  in  is  enough  to 
give  a  man  the  jim-jams  at  the  distance  of  fourteen 
ord'nary  townships." 

**  All  the  worse  to  paint  with,"  whispered  Gabrielle, 
somewhat  viciously.  "  You'd  better  stick  to  the 
tallow." 

Bonaventure  seemed  strangely  impressed  with  Phi- 
lander's  story.  His  pipe  had  gone  out  during  its 
recital,  and  he  sat  leaning  forward  with  elbows  on  his 
knees,  holding  the  pipe  by  its  stem  with  the  bowl 
upside  down. 

"  No,"  he   said  to   Philander,  after   a  pause,  wholly 


I 


i 


THE    WILD    MAN. 


86 


ignoring-  B'gob-sir's  observation,  "  I  shouldn't  go  alone 
after  what  yon  saw,  but  then  it  is  not  right  to  let  the 
matter  rest  where  it  is.  vSomcthing  should  be  done. 
We'll  make  up  a  party  some  of  these  days  and  search 
the  woods.  vStrange,  very  strange,"  he  added,  half  to 
himself,  as  his  mind  ran  back  over  Philander's 
experience. 

•'  'Deed  now,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  go  traipsin'  off 
into  that  turrible  place  lookin'  for  wild  men,"  said  Mrs. 
McGlorrie,  with  a  wifely  solicitation  for  her  husband's 
safety.  "  No  tellin'  anything  about  what  a  hathenish 
thing  it  might  be.  Now,  Gabrielle,  it's  time  you  was  in 
bed,  girl.  Dinnie's  been  there  this  long  while,  and  he's 
all  the  better  for  it." 

The  propriety  of  sending  Gabrielle  to  bed  was  sug- 
gested by  the  close  attention  which  that  young  lady 
had  been  paying  to  Philander  while  he  spoke.  She 
listened  with  breathless  interest  to  every  word,  and  her 
mother  did  not  fancy  the  excited  look  in  her  eye  as  he 
finished. 

"  I  wish  you'd  get  me  a  drink  of  water,  Gabrielle, 
before  you  go,"  said  her  father.  vShe  fetched  some  in  a 
big  tin  dipper,  and  after  he  had  drank  she  turned  to 
Philander  and  asked  if  he  would  have  some. 

"Perty  wa^m  to-night;  don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Phi- 
lander. 

She  brought  him  some,  and  stood  patting  the  soft 
earth  with  one  foot  and  looking  abstractedly  toward 
the  village  while  he  drank. 

"  And  you,  B'gob-sir? "  she  asked,  as  Philander 
handed  her  the  dipper.  B'gob-sir  declined,  and  she 
took  the  dipper  into  the  house.  She  did  not  ask 
Donald  if  he  would  have  some. 


i 


36 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


As  the  men  rose  to  j^o,  Gabriel le  managfed  to  gfet 
Philandcr's  ear,  while  her  father  was  saying  something 
to  Donald  about  the  prospect  of  the  crops. 

"  You'll  take  me  with  you  some  day  up  Eraser's 
Creek,  won't  you?" 

**  I  thought  it  was  up  the  ma'sh  creek  you  wanted  to 
go." 

**No,  I  don't  care  about  that;  I'd  rather  sec  what 
Eraser's  Creek  is  like.  You'll  take  me  sometime,  Phi- 
lander, won't  you? " 

"  Don't  know;  I'll  see  about  that.  You  haven't  any 
idea  what  kind  of  a  place  it  is,  or  you  wouldn't  want  to 
go." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  would.  That's  the  reason  I  want  to  go. 
I — "  But  any  further  remark  was  cut  short  by 
B'gob-sir,  who  spluttered  around  about  the  difficulty  of 
getting  Philander  home  in  "  any  kind  o'  decent  time  o' 
night.  Wh)',  b'gob-sir,  the  man  would  talk  all  night  if 
I'd  let  him."  Which  remark  sounded  peculiarly  ludi- 
crous in  view  of  B 'gob-sir's  natural  propensity  for  talk 
and  Philander's  well-known  reserve. 

*'  Good-night,  Philander,"  said  Gabrielle.  **  Good- 
night, B'gob-sir."  But  she  did  not  say  "  Good-night, 
Donald." 

When  Mrs.  McFarlane  learned  the  next  morning 
that  Donald  had  failed  to  mention  the  subject  of  the 
potash  kettle  during  his  visit  to  the  McGlorries,  she 
stared  at  him  in  utter  astonishment  for  a  moment,  and 
then  shook  her  head  disapprovingly,  and  muttered 
something  to  herself  in  a  way  that  made  Donald  feel 
very  uneasy. 

"  I  will  go  myself,"  she  said,  "  I  will  go  after  I  eat 
my  parritch." 


THF.    WILD    MAN. 


37 


And  she  did.  Her  long-  vigorous  strides  up  the  road 
indicated  a  determination  to  read  Donald  a  lesson  on 
his  negligence  in  not  asking  for  the  kettle,  for  it  was 
her  philosophy  that  whatever  belonged  to  the  neighbors 
was  equally  hers  by  right — at  least  to  the  extent  of 
their  patience  in  lending.  She  was  always  studying 
some  new  subterfuge  to  borrow,  and  was  impatient 
because  Donald  did  not  enter  into  the  spirit  of  her 
plans. 

She  found  no  one  at  home  in  the  McGlorrie  house- 
hold except  Gabrielle,  and  on  making  known  her  wants 
to  that  young  lady  she  met  with  a  flat  refusal. 

'*  No,  you  can't  have  it,"  said  Gabrielle,  with  cruel 
bluntness.  "  You're  always  running  after  that  kettle, 
and  I  guess  we  want  to  use  it  some  of  the  time  our- 
selves." She  spoke  almost  spitefully,  and  seemed  to 
take  a  malicious  delight  in  the  effect  her  words  had  on 
the  old  Scotch  woman.  The  good  lady  stood  amazed 
for  an  instant  at  such  a  reception,  and  then  began  to 
swell  with  a  righteous  indignation, 

"  Humph! "  she  ejaculated;  and  seeing  Gabrielle  going 
on  with  her  work,  apparently  oblivious  to  her  presence, 
she  grew  more  and  more  enraged  at  the  slight  put  upon 
her,  and  rising  to  her  tallest  height  and  trembling  in 
every  fiber,  she  pointed  a  bony  finger  at  Gabrielle  and 
burst  out: 

*'Weel,  ef  my  son  Tone-alt  will  only  speer  Goad 
Almicghty  for  another  'ear,  we'll  have  a  kettash  poh- 
tal  of  ower  ain."  And  forthwith  she  turned  and  strode 
in  high  dudgeon  toward  the  road.  All  the  way  up  the 
path  she  was  shaking  her  head  very  vigorously, 
and  muttering  to  herself,  with  an  occasional  outburst 
louder  than  the  rest:    "The  little  /lus-sj'," '' I'll  have 


38 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


her  to  know,"  **  She  will  be  insiilt-inj^'-  me,  the  little 
good-for-nothing,"  "Humph!"  "My  son  Tone-alt,  I 
shall  naver — " 

But  just  at  this  point  she  felt  her  arm  touched, 
and  there  stood  Gabrielle  with  the  sweetest,  mellowest 
expression  of  countenance  ever  seen;  her  great  black 
eyes  looking  up  into  the  old  woman's  face,  and  an 
altogether  different  light  in  them.  In  a  voice  soft  as  a 
summer's  breeze,  she  said: 

"  I  didn't  mean  it.  You  may  have  the  kettle  when- 
ever you  want  it,  Mrs.  McFarlane.  You  may  come  and 
get  it  without  asking  for  it.  Jest  take  it  any  time,  no 
matter  where  you  find  it,  and  you're  always  welcome 
to  it.  I  mean  every  word  I  say,"  she  added,  quickly,  as 
she  saw  the  look  on  the  old  woman's  face.  And  then 
clasping  Mrs.  McFarlane's  thin  arm  between  her  two 
plump  and  shapely  hands  in  a  caressing  way,  she 
reiterated:  "  Now  remember,  don't  bother  about  ask- 
in'  for  it,  but  use  it  whenever  you  like.  Good-by." 
And  she  was  skipping  down  the  path  like  a  young 
deer  before  Mrs.  McFarlane  could  regain  her  breath. 

"Well,  dear  me,  dear  me,"  said  the  good  dame,  turn- 
ing toward  home.  "  Bless  me,  I  don't  unnerstand  her 
at  all,  at  all.  She's  naver  twice  the  same.  Sometimes 
she's  con-trary  as  the  old  black  soo,  and  then  again 
she's  good;  she's  good — almost — as  my  son  Tone-alt." 


i 

I 
) 


VI. 


A   BIG  CATCH. 

TT  had  been  some  weeks  since  Gabriellc  eanj^ht  the 
"''  bass  and  gave  it  to  Andy,  the  Indian,  and  yet  she 
had  seen  nothing  of  him,  and  had  received  no  word  of 
the  promised  moccasins.  She  watched  the  river  closely 
for  his  canoe,  but  he  avoided  this  route  on  his  way  to 
the  village,  and  she  was  beginning  to  wonder  how  vshe 
should  find  him.  One  afternoon  she  saw  Philander 
rowing  down-stream,  and,  running  to  the  bank,  she 
hailed  him  and  asked  where  he  was  g;(u^   ■ 

"Jest  down  to  the  mouth  to  troll  for  ge.  Won't 
you  go  along? " 

"Course  I  will,"  said  Gabrielle,  glad  ui  the  oppor- 
tunity. "  You'll  let  me  troll,  won't  you.  Philander?  I'd 
give  anything  to  catch  a  'lunge."  Her  eyes  sparkled 
already  in  anticipation  of  the  sport. 

"  Yes,  you  can  troll,  but  mind,  you  must  do  as  I  say  if 
you  get  one  on.  Don't  be  in  too  big  a  hurry  to  land 
him.     Did  you  ever  troll  for  '  lunge?  " 

*'  No,  father  never'll  take  me  with  him  trollin'.  He 
says  I  can  still-fish  for  bass  all  I  like,  biit  when  it  comes 
to  trollin'  he  ain't  going  to  scare  all  the  fish  out  of  the 
lake  by  totin'  such  a  chatter-box  as  me  around  over  the 
water.  Wish  I  was  in  his  place  for  awhile,  and  him  in 
mine;  d'you  know  what  I'd  do?  " 

"  I  s'pose  you'd  lock  him  up  in  the  woodshed  a  whole 
day." 

(39) 


40 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


M 


"  No  I  wouldn't,"  she  said,  with  a  softened  light  in  her 
eye.  "  I'd  take  him  out  troUin'  whenever  he  wanted  to 
go,  and  let  him  chatter  all  he  liked." 

"  Oh,  Gabe,  you're  a  minx.  Well,  we'll  see  what  kind 
of  a  fist  you  make  at  trollin',  and  if  you  catch  a  big 
one  you  can  take  it  home  and  make  your  father  a 
present  of  it." 

"  I  catched  a  big  bass  right  over  in  that  bend  this 
spring,"  she  said,  pointing  across  to  the  spot  where  she 
and  Andy  had  fished,  "  and  I  wish  I'd  given  that  to 
father." 

"  What  did  you  do  with  it? " 

"Oh,  I  give  it  to  one-eyed  Andy,  the  Indian."  An.', 
then  she  related  in  detail  the  circumstance. 

"Well,  Gabe,  I'm  sorry,"  said  Philander,  when  she 
had  finished.  "  You'll  never  git  them  moccasins  in  the 
world.  Old  Andy's  too  lazy  to  breathe  good  and 
natural,  let  alone  making  moccasins.  He'll  slink  out  of 
it  somehow." 

"Will  he?"  exclaimed  Gabrielle,  HfH  a  dangerous 
glitter  in  her  eyes.     "  You  just  wait  and  see!  " 

And  then  she  sat  quietly  pondering  for  a  time,  while 
Philander's  sweeping  strokes  brought  the  boat  near  to 
the  mouth  of  the  river. 

"  Now,  Gabe,  we're  coming  into  deep  water.  You'd 
best  let  out  your  line;  but  let  it  out  slow,  and  be  sure 
the  hook  plays  all  right.  If  it  stops  playin'  you  must 
pull  in  and  see  what's  wrong.  It's  ii'ble  to  git  caught 
in  a  weed  or  something  like  that,  and  if  it  doesn't  play 
the  fish  won't  bite  it." 

"  How  am  I  to  know  whether  it's  playin'  or  not? " 
asked  Gabrielle. 

"  Oh,  you'll  feel  a  sort  of  twitchin'  or  quiverin'  in  the 


A    BIG    CATCH. 


41 


line  if  the  hook  plays.  When  the  line  doesn't  kinder 
tremble  between  your  tluimb  and  finger,  you  may  know 
that  something's  wrong." 

"  I  believe  I've  got  one  on  already,"  exclaimed 
Gabrielle,  commencing  to  haul  in  the  few  feet  of  line 
she  had  let  out. 

"  No,  you  haven't,"  said  Philander,  laughing.  "  Let 
out  your  line." 

"  How'm  I  goin'  to  know  when  I  have  a  bite?  "  she 
asked,  with  growing  excitement. 

"You'll  know  all  right,"  he  answered,  significantly. 
''  You'll  feel  a  tug  at  the  line,  and  then  most  likely  it'll 
slack  right  up.  When  it  slacks  like  that  after  a  tug 
you  must  haul  in  fast  as  you  can;  but  the  minute  the 
fish  begins  to  pull  again  you  must  ease  up  on  the  line 
and  humor  him.  Jest  keep  workin'  him  carefully  up  to 
the  boat,  and — but  I'll  tell  you  how  to  handle  him  when 
you  git  one  on." 

Philander  kept  the  boat  moving  to  and  fro  across 
deep  places  in  the  lake  near  the  mouth  of  the  river,  and 
Gabriede's  tongue  seemed  to  justify  her  father's  pre- 
dictions; but  in  extenuation  it  must  be  admitted  that 
most  of  her  talk  ran  on  the  work  in  hand. 

"  Philander,  I  don't  believe  it's  playin',"  rather 
excitedly. 

"Well,  hold  the  line  away  out  from  t'le  boat  between 
your  thumb  and  finger,  and  then  sec." 

"Oh,  yes;  it's  workin'  all  right."  And  then  a  pause. 
"  Oh,  I've  got  a  bite!  I've  got  a  bite!  "  And  instantly 
she  begins  to  haul  in. 

"  Sure  you  got  a  bite?  "  asks  Philander. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  it;  I  feel  it  tug.  And  the  line  pulls 
heavy  now." 


43 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


"All  right;  haul  it  in." 

She  worked  away  at  the  line,  hand  over  hand,  in 
growing"  excitement. 

"I  believe  it's  a  big  one.  Philander.  What'll  I  do 
with  him  when  I  git  him  up  to  the  boat? " 

"  Wait  till  you  git  him  up,"  said  Philander,  who  was 
watching  the  line  with  a  calmness  that  surprised 
Gabrielle. 

"Gracious!  he  ought  to  be  here  soon,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  the  pile  of  line  in  front  of  her. 

"  Guess  he  will,"  Philander  remarked,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye. 

The  next  instant  there  was  a  "  swish  "  on  the  surface 
of  the  water  behind  the  boat,  and  a  large  mass  of 
weeds  was  dragged  up  alongside.  Gabrielle's  vision 
of  a  beautiful  muscallonge  on  the  hook  vanished  in  an 
instant. 

"  Better  luck  next  time,  Gabe.  Pick  off  the  weeds 
and  throw  out  the  line  again.  You're  not  the  first  one 
that's  been  fooled  that  way  with  weeds." 

"  I  wish  the  weeds  were  in  the  bottom  of  the  — " 

"Well,  that's  jest  where  they  are,"  laughed  Philan- 
der, seeing  Gabrielle's  mistake.  "  That's  the  trouble 
with  'em.  If  they  was  anywhere  else  than  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  lake  it'd  be  easier  fishin'." 

The  line  was  no  sooner  out  again  than  Gabrielle 
felt  an  unmistakable  bite. 

"Oh,  Philander,  I've  got  one!  There's  something 
alive  on  the  end  of  the  line  this  time,  sure.  See  him 
jerk!  "     And  she  began  hauling  in  with  might  and  main. 

"  Not  too  fast,  Gabe!     Not  too  fast." 

But  Gabrielle  was  oblivious  to  everything  except  that 
live  wriggling  thing  on  the  hook. 


A    BIG   CATCH. 


43 


"  Look  out,  Gabe!     You're  hauling-  in  too  fast." 

Just  at  that  moment  a  muscallonge  flopped  out  of  the 
lake  about  twenty  yards  behind  the  boat,  and  Gabri- 
elle's  line  hung  limp  and  free  in  the  water. 

"Oh,  he's  gone!  "  she  said,  dolefully.  "■  How  did  he 
git  off  the  hook,  I  wonder? " 

"  You  pulled  him  up  to  the  surface,  and  that  give  him 
a  chance  to  flop  out  of  the  water  and  throw  the  hook 
from  his  mouth.     I  told  you  not  to  pull  so  fast." 

"  I  didn't  hear  you,"  she  said,  looking  ruefully  at  the 
spot  where  the  fish  had  escaped. 

"Try  again,"  said  Philander,  encouragingly,  "and 
don't  forgit  to  humor  your  fish  somewhat.  If  he  pulls 
real  hard  give  him  a  little  line,  and  when  he  runs 
toward  the  boat  haul  in  the  slack  fast.  Jest  keep  the 
line  taut.  If  you  leave  it  too  loose  it  gives  him  a 
chance  to  wiggle  the  hook  out  of  his  mouth,  and  if  you 
pull  too  hard  he'll  come  to  the  top  of  the  water  and 
jump,  like  this  one  did." 

"I  believe  I'll  let  you  pull  in  the  next  one,"  she  said, 
much  depressed  at  her  loss,  and  evidently  despairing  of 
her  own  ability. 

"  No  you  won't.  You'll  catch  him  yourself.  You  can 
troll  as  well's  anybody,  when  you  once  git  the  hang 
of  it." 

Just  as  she  was  letting  out  the  line  again  Philander 
heard  the  sound  of  a  paddle,  and  looking  across  the 
water,  observed: 

"  There's  old  Andy  now.  He's  trollin'  too.  I  won- 
der if  he's  got  any  fish." 

"  I  wish  you'd  row  over  in  his  direction  jest  a  min- 
ute," said  Gabrielle,  looking  at  the  Indian  in  a  peculiar 
way. 


44 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


*'  Have  you  got  any  fish?"  Philander  asked,  when  they 
were  in  speaking  distance, 

"  Have  you  got  my  moccasins? "  said  Gabrielle,  giv- 
ing him  no  time  to  answer. 

The  Indian  sullenly  shook  his  head  and  went  on 
paddling. 

"  See  here,  Andy,  you  miserable  low-down  sneak 
Indian,  ycju!  Do  you  remember  that  bass  I  caught  for 
you  up  the  river?  Well,  now,  you'd  better  bring  them 
moccasins  you  promised  me,  or  it  won't  be  well  for 
you!  "  The  scolding  her  mother  had  given  her  for  let- 
ting Andy  have  the  fish,  and  Philander's  prediction 
that  she  would  never  get  the  moccasins,  together  with 
her  recent  experience  with  the  muscallonge,  all  com- 
bined to  put  her  in  a  vicious  mood  against  the  Indian, 
and  that  stolid  creature  was  probably  surprised  to  hear 
such  an  outburst  from  her. 

"  Now  mind  what  I  tell  you,  you  lazy  glutton!  You 
was  glad  enough  to  git  the  fish,  wasn't  you?  If  you 
ever  show  your  dirty  face  around  the  Nonquon  again 
without  bringing  them  moccasins  I'll  shoot  5"ou,  Andy. 
I'll  shoot  you  so  full  of  holes  your  friends  over  in  the 
happy  huntin'  groimds  won't  know  you.  Now  mind 
what  I  tell  you!" 

"  Gabe,  haven't  you  got  a  bite? "  said  Philander, 
watching  her  line. 

"  Guess  I  have,"  she  answered,  turning  her  attention 
from  the  Indian  to  her  line.  vShe  manipulated  the  line 
more  successfully  this  time,  and  soon  had  the  fish 
alongside. 

"  Look  out  now  you  don't  knock  him  on  the  side  o' 
the  boat  when  you're  tryin' to  land  him.     S\.ing  him 


A    BIG    CATCH. 


45 


well  out  over  the  gunwale.  That's  it.  There  you  are! 
Good  for  you;  you've  got  him!  " 

"  Yes,  but  he's  only  a  bass,  after  all.  I  wanted  a 
'lunge."     Her  lip  hung  rather  lov,'. 

"Guess  it's  jest  as  well  it  wasn't  a  'lunge  that  time, 
or  you'd  'a'  knocked  him  off  the  hook  on  the  side  o'  the 
boat.  A  'lunge  always  darts  and  dives  the  minute  he 
gets  up  close  enough  to  see  the  boat,  and  ten  to  one  he 
goes  right  down  under  the  boat.  If  you  pull  him  up 
quick,  3'ou're  sure  to  strike  him  ag'in'  the  side  and 
knock  him  off  the  hook.  When  a  'lunge  dives  under 
the  boat,  jest  keep  the  line  tight  for  a  bit,  or  pull  a 
little  on  it,  and  he'll  dart  in  the  other  direction,  and 
when  he  is  well  away  from  the  boat  bring  him  up 
alongside,  and  whop  him  at  arm's  length  clear  over  the 
side  into  the  boat." 

"Well,  that's  a  nice  bass,  anyhow,"  said  Gabrielle, 
looking  down  at  the  fish.  "  But  I  thought  he  would 
weigh  forty  or  fifty  pounds  when  I  was  bringin'  him 
in."^ 

"  A  bass  is  very  deceivin'.  Take  a  four  or  five  pound 
bass  on  a  troUin'  line  and  he'll  make  more  fuss  than  a 
'lunge  of  twice  the  size.  Gabe,  I've  changed  my 
mind,"  suddenly  veering  from  the  subject,  and  looking 
at  her  in  a  quizzical  manner. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  said  Andy'd  never  bring  you  the  moccasins,  but  I 
believe  he  will.  I  don't  think  he'll  dare  to  .show  him- 
self on  this  side  o'  the  lake  again,  after  that  dressin' 
down  you  gave  him,  unless  he  has  the  moccasins. 
You're  a  terror,  Gabc^  when  you  git  started;  but  I  guess 
you  wouldn't  shoot  anybodv,  would  you?" 


"  N-no,  I  don't — s'pose — I — would. 


Yes,  I  would  too," 


46 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


'  I 


t 


she  said,  suddenly  changing'  her  tone.  "  I'd  shoot  that 
blamed  sneak  of  an  Indian  quick  as  I  would  a  dog — 
and  quicker — that  is,  if  he  doesn't  bring  me  them  moc- 


casins." 
*•  Well 


I  guess  he'll  bring  'em,"  said  Philander, 
laughing.  *'  He'll  set  his  squaw  to  work  a  makin'  'em, 
and  you  can  depend  on  'em  by  the  next  time  he  goes  to 
the  village." 

They  trolled  for  some  time  before  getting  another 
bite,  and  Gabrielle  was  beginning  to  despair  of  catch- 
ing the  coveted  "  'lunge,"  when  she  felt  a  tug  at  the 
line,  and  this  time,  sure  enough,  it  was  a  muscallonge. 
When  the  fish  was  near  enough  for  Philander  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  him,  he  exclaimed:  **  That's  a  'lunge,  Gabe, 
sure's  you're  born;  and  you've  got  him  near  the  boat. 
Now  look  out  and  he's  your  fish." 

But  the  announcement  that  she  had  at  last  really  a 
muscallonge  so  nearly  caught  was  too  much  for  Gabri- 
elle's  presence  of  mind,  and  she  instantly  forgot  all  of 
Philander's  instructions.  Her  one  idea  was  to  land  the 
fish,  and  when  she  saw  him  dive  out  of  sight  it  seemed 
to  her  that  he  was  getting  away  from  her,  and  she 
tugged  at  the  line,  without  the  slightest  attention  to 
Philander's  warning.  Up  came  the  fish  plump  against 
the  boat,  and  all  that  Gabrielle  saw  of  him  after  that 
was  the  white  gleam  of  his  throat  as  he  turned  on  his 
side  and  dove  away  into  deep  water. 

"  Too  bad,  Gabe,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  We'll  catch 
one  yet;  they're  biting  fine  to-day."  And  Philander 
started  to  row  on  again. 

Gabrielle  was  completely  crestfallen. 

"It's  all  my  fault.  Philander.  I'm  a  perfect  fool!  I 
ain't  fit  for  nothin'  at  all.     You'd  'a'  catched  that  fish  if 


A    BIG    CATCH. 


47 


you'd  had  hold  of  the  line.  Even  old  B'gob-sir  would 
'a'  done  better'n  that.  I'm  glad  B'gob-sir  ain't  here," 
she  added,  reflectively.  And  then,  looking  at  Philander 
resolutely,  she  broke  out:  "  If  I  git  another  'lunge  on 
that  hook  I'll  /^?;^<r/him!  Now  you  see  if  I  don't.  I'll 
land  him,  or  I'll  jump  into  the  lake  after  him!  " 

"All  right,  Gabe,  here  goes."  And  he  rowed  away 
vigorously  toward  a  stretch  of  deep  clear  water,  where 
the  largest  fish  were  most  likely  to  be  found. 

Gabrielle  settled  down  into  a  reflective  mood,  with 
her  eyes  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  small  ripples  beside 
the  boat.  Possibly  she  was  thinking  of  the  lost  fish,  or 
of  Andy  and  the  moccasins,  or  of  B'gob-sir  Brown,  or 
the  wild  man,  or  of  Mrs.  McFarlane  and  the  potash 
kettle,  or — possibly  she  was  thinking  of  some  one  else. 
After  they  had  gone  on  in  this  way  for  some  time  with- 
out a  word,  she  suddenly  started  up  and  cried: 

"  Hold  on.  Philander!  vStop  the  boat!  The  hook  is 
caught  in  a  log  or  something." 

Philander  stopped  rowing  and  began  to  back  water, 
watching  the  line  closely  as  he  did  so.  All  at  once  he 
noticed  a  startled,  excited  look  on  Gabrielle's  face, 

"  Philandci !  There's  something  alive  on  the  hook! 
Look  at  that!  Look — at — that!  Why,  Philander,  what 
can  it  be?  Back  water  quick,  or  the  line'll  git  away 
from  me! " 

Philander  saw  there  was  something  unusual  on  the 
hook  by  the  way  the  spare  line  was  spinning  through 
Gabrielle's  hand,  and  sent  the  boat  back  as  fast  as 
possible. 

"  I  can't  think  what  you've  got  on  there,  Gabe.  I 
never  saw  anything  act  like  that  before.  Don't  let  the 
line  git  away  from  you,  whatever  you  do.     That's  the 


48 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


best  hook  and  line  I've  got,  and  I  don't  want  to  lose 
it." 

She  was  struggling-  hard  to  prevent  any  more  line 
running  out,  as  she  saw  there  were  only  a  few  yards 
more  left  in  the  boat.  Her  exertions  interfered  some- 
what with  the  progress  of  the  creature,  whatever  it 
was,  and  it  soon  changed  its  tactics  and  swerved  to  one 
side,  leaving  the  line  slack.  Gabrielle  immediately 
began  to  haul  in,  but  was  soon  checked  again,  and  the 
line  went  spinning  as  before. 

"Look  out,  Gabe!  Hang  on!  You  haven't  much 
vSpare  line.  I  don't  see  what  in  the  dickens  it  can 
be." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  I  can  hold  it  much  longer.  I 
never  saw  anything  pull — " 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  terrific  splashing  in  the 
water  away  astern,  and  Philander  stared  open-eyed  at 
the  spot. 

"Heavens  alive,  Gabe!  that's  a  'lunge.  It's  a 
'lunge,  sure's  you're  born!  I  never  seen  anything  like 
it;  it's  big  as  a  whale!  " 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  off  the  hook!  "  exclaimed  Gabrielle, 
as  the  line  slackened  in  her  hand.  "  I  guess  he  throwed 
the  hook  when  he  jumped  out  of  the  water.  Oh,  he's 
gone,  sure,"  she  added,  lugubriously,  hauling  in  yard 
after  yard  of  the  wet  line  and  casting  it  in  a  heap  in 
front  of  her.  "  Well,  it  wasn't  my  fault  that  ti —  Oh, 
glory!  There  he  goes  again.  He's  on  all  right." 
And  away  went  the  line  more  rapidly  than  ever. 

"That's  a  terror  of  a  fish,  Gabe,  and  he's  jest  a  git- 
tin'  waked  up.  We've  got  the  biggest  kind  of  a  fight 
before  us  if  we  ever  land  him.  No  use  talkin'  about 
gittin'  Jiiin  into  the  boat." 


If 


A    KIG    CATCH. 


4n 


"  Whatever'll  we  do  with  him?"  asked  Gabriclle, 
screwing  up  her  face  as  the  Hne  tore  its  way  through 
her  clenched  fingers. 

"  We'll  have  to  play  him  here  in  deep  water  till  we 
tire  him  out,  and  then  tow  him  ashore  some  place." 

*'  Oh  dear,  I  don't  believe  he'll  ever  give  up.  He 
seems  to  be  gittin'  stronger  every  minute."  And  it 
looked  as  if  Gabrielle  was  right,  for  the  fish  was  now 
heading  for  the  middle  of  the  lake  at  a  terrific  pace,  and 
taking  the  boat  after  him  as  if  it  were  no  impediment. 
He  made  a  much  longer  run  of  it  this  time,  and  seemed 
to  verify  Philander's  observation  that  he  was  just  wak- 
ing up.  He  tugged  viciously  at  the  line,  and  appeared 
to  be  maddened  by  the  resistance. 

'*  Gracious!  look  where  he's  taking  us  this  time.  He's 
headin'  straight  for  the  island.  I  hope  the  line  won't 
break.  Oh,  Philander,  what  if  he'd  git  away  from  us 
now!     I'd  never  git  over  it." 

Her  eyes  were  sparkling,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  with 
the  excitement;  but  Philander  looked  more  grave  and 
dubious. 

"  Don't  coimt  too  much  on  gittin'  him,  Gabe.     We'll 

do  the  best  we  can,  but  it'll  take  a  long,  hard  fight  to 

conquer  that  feller,  and  there's  a  thousand  chances  for 

us  to  lose  him  yet.     The  line  is  good  and  strong  or  it 

wouldn't  have  stood  what  it  has,  but  the  hook  may 

break,  if  he  hasn't  swallered  it.     I  begin  to  think  he 

has,  though,  from  the  way  it  hangs  on ;  but  if  so  the 

great  danger  is  that  the  line'll  git  sawed  off  runnin' 

between  his  teeth.      You  must  humor  him  all  you  can, 

but  from  the  looks  o'  things  he's  goin'  to  take  matters 

in  his  own  hands,  without  consultin'  anybody.     I  never 

seen  a  fish  that  could  snatch  a  boat  around  like  this." 
4 


50 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


Suddenly  the  muscallonge  stopped  running  again, 
and  Gabrielle  hauled  away  at  the  slack,  while  Philander 
started  the  boat  for  the  nearest  available  bit  of  land, 
called  **  Beaver-Meadow  Point." 

"We'll  work  him  up  this  way  as  well  as — " 

"Oh,  there  he  goes  again!"  shrieked  Gabrielle,  who 
felt  the  line  drawn  sharply  around  her  back  across  the 
stern  of  the  boat.  "  He's  taken  a  new  tack,  and  is  goin' 
like  the  wind.  I  don't  believe  he'll  ever  give  up!  "  she 
said,  doubtfully,  as  she  saw  no  symptoms  of  weariness 
on  the  part  of  the  fish. 

Matters  certainly  did  begin  to  assume  a  rather 
serious  outlook.  The  sky  was  clouding  over,  and  a 
storm  seemed  brewing.  An  uneasy  ripple  agitated  the 
surface  of  the  lake,  and  the  birds  skimmed  swiftly 
along  close  to  the  water. 

"  Gabe,  we've  got  to  do  something  perty  soon,  for 
there's  a  rainstorm  comin'.  You'd  best  let  me  have  the 
line  and  see  if  I  can  manage  him  any  better.  You're 
wet  through  now  handlin'  the  line,  and  your  hands  is 
all  blistered.     Let  me  have  it,  Gabe." 

"No  you  don't,"  she  answered,  resolutely.  "You 
stay  where  you  are,  and  'tend  to  the  oars.  I'll  catch 
this  fish  myself  or  die  tryin'.  Oh,  Philander,"  she  con- 
tinued, in  a  more  persuasive  tone,  "  I  can't  give  him  up. 
I'll  do  anything  you  say,  only — let  me  be  the  one  that 
catches  him.  I  don't  care  for  the  rain.  I'm  wet  now, 
and  a  little  more  won't  hurt.     There,  he's  turned." 

And  thus  the  fight  went  on  for  some  time,  first  one 
side  getting  a  slight  advantage  and  then  the  other. 
To  make  matters  worse  for  the  occupants  of  the  boat 
it  soon  began  to  rain.  The  great  drops  pelted  their 
faces  and  beat  into  the  boat,  drenching  them  through. 


A    111(1    CATCH. 


51 


The  lake  grew  rough,  and  Philander  was  made  busy 
keeping  the  boat  at  rights.  Tlic  lowering  sky  darkened 
everything  abcnit  them,  and  as  the  wind  inereased  they 
could  scarcely  hear  or  see  each  other.  The  boat  was 
by  this  time  tossing  terribly,  and  the  vslightest  turn  of 
the  fish  in  the  wrong  direction  would  have  sent  them 
over  in  spite  of  everything. 

"  No  use  talkin',  Gabe,"  called  out  Philander,  "  if 
this  keeps  up  much  longer  we  can't  stand  it.  I'm 
afraid  we'll  have  to  give  him  up,  if  it  gits  worse." 

"  You  'tend  to  the  boat,"  cried  (labrielle,  her  deter- 
mination rising  equal  to  the  situation. 

"  That  girl  is  a  brick,"  thought  Philander;  "  but  I 
mustn't  let  her  git  drowned  on  account  of  a  fish." 

She  had  managed  by  considerable  maneuvering  to 
get  in  quite  a  length  of  spare  line  in  case  of  an  emer- 
gency, and  the  next  movement  of  the  fish  proved  the 
wisdom  of  her  proceeding. 

"Turn  the  bow  to  the  right,  quick!"  she  suddenly 
exclaimed.  "  He's  gone  across  the  stern  again.  Hurry 
up  or  the  line'll  give  out." 

By  dint  of  the  most  expert  use  of  the  oars.  Philander 
managed  to  swing  the  boat  just  as  the  tug  came.  In 
another  instant  they  would  have  been  over. 

"  That  was  a  close  shave,  Gabe,  and  we  can't  afford 
to  take  any  more  chances  like  that.  You'd  better  let 
the  fish  go,  for  we're  goin'  to  have  all  we  can  do  to 
'tend  to  ourselves.     It's  gittin*  rougher  every  minute." 

"  You  'tend  to  the  boat,"  came  back  the  dogged 
reply. 

"  Gabe,  for  God's  sake,  look  out!  "  he  yelled  a  minute 
later.  "  This  boat'll  be  over  in  spite  of  me.  Let  him 
go,  I  tell  you." 


62 


THK    HJiRMIl     ()!•      IHK    NONQUON. 


;l! 


I  ! 


"  'Tend  to  your  boat,"  she  sanj;-  back  throiij^^h  the 
bbndinj^'  rain. 

"  (j\t/h;  drop  that  Hue.  Do  you  luar?  "  roared  Phi- 
lander, growing  desperate. 

"  Yes,  I  hear." 

•«  Well,  drop  it." 

"  I  won't." 

**  Are  yon  tryin'  to  drown  iis?  Sec  the  way  the  boat 
pitehes.     Let  it  j^o.     For  (  sake,  (kibe,  let  it  j^'o!  " 

He  threw  more  of  a  pleadin^,  into  liis  v(jiee,  as  he  was 
j^jrowinj^  truly  terrified. 

"All  right,  there  it  }j;"oes,"  she  yelled.  Philander 
breathed  easier. 

"  Gabe,  you're  lyin',"  he  exclaimed  a  moment  later. 
"  You've  got  that  line  yet." 

"  Yes,  and  Pm  go'in'  to  keep  it.  You  can  make  up 
your  mind  that  PU  hang  onto  this  line  now  if  it  takes 
us  to  the  bottom.  Pm  goin'  to  have  that  fish,  I  tell 
you.  Ycni  tend  to  the  boat."  And  from  that  time  she 
was  mistress  of  the  situa*  ion  Philander  could  do  notli- 
ing  with  her,  and  with  an  a  ms  countenance  gave  his 
attention  to  keeping  the  boat  at  rights.  She  directed 
him  now  and  then  which  way  to  turn,  and  through  all 
that  storm  they  sat  facing  each  other,  he  battling  with 
the  boat  and  she  with  the  muscallonge.  But  soon  the 
wind  died  down,  and  the  worst  of  the  danger  was  over. 

"  We'll  git  this  feller  yet,"  said  Gabrielle,  triumph- 
antly, as  it  began  to  clear  up.  "  But  we're  too  far  away 
from  Beaver  Meadow  Point  to  land  him  there.  You'd 
best  strike  for  the  island.  He's  gittin'  pretty  well 
played  out  now,  and  we'll  soon  have  the  better  of  him." 

"Gabe,  you're  a  brick,"  Philander  enthusiastically 
exclaimed.     "  Pm  as  anxious  now  tc^  land  him  as  you 


A    BIG    CATCH, 


58 


i 


arc,  but  T  swow  T  thoiij^ht  one  spell  yoii  was  ^oin'  tn 
drown  lis,  sure." 

*' So  1  would  if  you  Imdn'l  'tended  to  the  boat,"  she 
answered,  with  a  twinkle  of  the  eye. 

There  was  a  ^^ravel  bottom  some  distance  out  from 
the  island  shore,  and,  towinjj;-  the  tired  fish  in  that 
direction,  they  were  soon  within  a  few  rods  of  the  land. 
Here  the  gamy  fellow  made  one  more  dash  for  liberty; 
but  it  was  weak  compared  to  his  former  rushes,  and 
Gabrielle  ({uickly  had  him  under  control  aj^ain.  As 
soon  as  the  boat  j^ratcd  on  the  beach  Gabrielle  sprang 
out,  and  begging  Philander  to  let  her  finish  the  work, 
she  began  hauling  the  line  in  hand  over  hand,  watching 
all  the  while  with  boundless  excitement  the  water  in 
the  direction  of  the  fish.  vShe  realized  his  weight  now 
better  than  ever,  when  she  was  standing  on  the  firm 
ground  instead  of  sitting  in  a  boat  that  yielded  easily 
to  his  strength. 

"  There  he  comes,"  she  shouted,  as  the  fish  gave  a 
great  lurch  in  the  shallow  water,  not  yet  decided 
whether  he  would  give  it  up  or  not.  "  Oh,  Philander, 
isn't  he  a  beauty?     Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it?" 

Ilcr  hat  had  long  ago  blown  to  the  back  of  her  head, 
where  it  was  held  by  the  strings  imder  her  chin;  and 
her  wet  hair  was  tossed  and  tumbled  about  her  face. 
Her  cheeks  were  glowing  with  excitement,  and  her 
eyes — well,  they  were  Gabrielle's  eyes  at  their  very  best, 
and  it  was  probably  well  for  Donald's  palpitation  of  the 
heart  that  he  was  not  present  to  see  them. 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  Gabe.  Don't  pull  too  hard. 
Don't  you  see  the  line's  nearly  chawed  off.  He  may 
git  away  yet." 

"  Here,  take  this,"  screamed  Gabrielle,  excitedly,  put- 


54 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


ii ; 


ting-  the  line  into  Philander's  hand;  and  before  he 
understood  her  object  she  had  dashed  into  the  water 
and  was  wading  toward  the  muscallonge. 

"Look  out!  Don't  grab  him  by  the  gills,  Gabe,  or 
you'll  git  your  hands  all  cut  up.  Lift  him  by  the  body 
if  you  can." 

But  Gabrielle's  attempt  to  do  this  resulted  in  such  an 
unwieldy  flop  on  the  part  of  the  fish  that  she  sprang 
on  him  in  sheer  desperation,  lest  he  should  get  away 
from  her  yet,  and,  regardless  of  lacerated  hands,  she 
seized  him  b;  the  gills  and  dragged  him  struggling 
toward  the  bank,  with  his  monstrous  mouth  wide  open. 
She  slipped  on  the  stones,  and  tugged  away,  and 
breathed  hard,  but  finally  landed  him  high  and  dry, 
where  Philander  soon  dispatched  him  with  his  hunting- 
knife.  Then  Gabrielle  gave  a  whoop  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  an  Indian  after  a  victory.  She  danced 
around  her  prize,  and  snatched  off  her  hat  and  waved 
it  in  the  air. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Philander?  Didn't  I  say  I'd 
git  him?  Ain't  he  worth  fightin'  for?  He's  the  biggest 
one  5'ou  ever  saw,  ain't  he?  How  much  do  you  think 
he'll  weigh?  " 

"  Yes,  he's  the  biggest  'lunge  by  ten  or  twelve  pounds 
that  I  ever  come  across.  I  didn't  think  there  was  any- 
thing like  him  in  Lake  Scugog.  He'll  go  at  least  forty 
pounds." 

And  Philander  viewed  the  fish  with  a  critical  eye, 
and  expressed  as  much  satisfaction  over  the  capture  as 
Gabrielle.  Then,  turning  to  her,  he  continued:  "But 
good  Lordy,  Gabe,  look  at  them  hands  of  5^ours!  They're 
all  tore  and  bleedin'.  I  told  you  not  to  catch  him  by 
the  gills.  And  your  dress,  look  at  that!  What'U  your 
mother  say? " 


A    BIG    CATCH. 


66 


"  I  don't  care  for  dress,  nor  hands,  nor  anything-  else. 
Jest  run  your  eye  over  that  beauty  layin'  there  in  the 
grass,  and  then  talk  about  dress  and  hands,  will  you?" 

And  the  sight  certainly  justified  Gabrielle's  enthu- 
siasm. The  monster  was  lying  on  his  side,  with  his 
white  throat  sharply  outlined  against  the  green  grass, 
his  body,  plump  in  proportion  and  trimly  built;  and  his 
broad  back,  of  a  greenish  brown  color,  blending  with 
the  foliage  beneath  him.  Some  spots  of  bright-red 
blood  on  his  throat  showed  where  Philandcr's  knife 
had  been,  and  his  great  jaws  fell  apart  as  if  he  had 
been  utterly  exhausted  with  the  struggle.  The  grass 
was  wet  from  the  recent  rain,  and  a  fresh  mist  steamed 
up  from  the  earth.  The  western  sun  peeped  out  after 
the  storm,  and  some  glorious  rays  came  across  the  lake 
and  brightened  up  the  little  scene  on  the  island. 

"  We're  goin'  to  have  a  fine  spell  o'  weather  to  go 
home  in,"  said  Gabrielle,  shading  her  eyes  with  her 
hand  and  looking  across  the  lake. 

"  Yes,  and  we  must  be  startin'  right  away,"  answered 
Philander,  as  he  drew  the  boat  up  on  land  to  empty 
out  the  water. 

"  It's  a  long  pull  from  here  to  the  Nonquon,  and — 
why,  Gabe,  there's  the  bass  you  caught;  I'd  forgot  all 
about  him." 

**  So  had  I,  but  I  don't  care  anything  for  //////.  You 
can  throw  him  away  if  you  like."  She  was  looking  all 
the  while  at  the  muscallonge,  and  Philander  could  not 
help  laughing. 

"  Oh,  my  girl,  you'd  'a'  been  mighty  thankful  to  lug 
this  bass  home  with  you  if  you  hadn't  catched  the 
'lunge.  He'd  'a'  been  a  middlin'  fine  fish  in  your  eye, 
only  for  you  havin'  one  so  much  better.     I'm  goin'  to 


50 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


;i 


take  this  home  and  cook  him  for  my  supper,  and  you 
can  do  what  you  Hke  with  your  old  'hmge." 

Gabrielle's  quick  perception  instantly  caught  the  sig- 
nificance of  this  remark. 

"  Now,  Philander,  none  of  that.  This  'lunge  belongs 
to  you  as  much  as  he  does  to  me — and  more  too." 

"  No  he  don't;  he's  your  'lunge." 

"  I  tell  you  he  ain't.     What  right  have  I  to  him? " 

"  Because  you  catched  him." 

"  I'd  'a'  made  a  likely  attempt  at  catchin'  him  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  jjv//." 

**  I'd  'a'  lost  both  the  'lunge  and  the  best  trollin'  line 
I've  got  if  it  hadn't  been  iov you." 

"  Now,  Philander,  quit  mockin'  me." 

"  Wouldn't  mock  you  for  the  world." 

"  Philander!  " 

"Yes." 

"  Tell  you  what  I'll  do." 

"  Well?  " 

"  We'll  split  the  difference.  You  take  half  and  mc 
half." 

"  Not  a  split;  it's  your  'lunge." 

"  I  just  won't  touch  a  scale  of  him." 

"  All  right,  then,  we'll  have  to  leave  him  here.  Come, 
jump  into  the  boat;  it's  time  we  was  off." 

She  resolutely  stepped  on  board,  and  the  next  instant 
Philander  sent  the  boat  spinning  through  the  water, 
toward  home.  She  watched  him  carefully  for  a  moment, 
to  see  if  she  could  not  discover  some  symptoms  of 
wavering  on  his  part,  but  his  face  was  serene  and 
unconcerned,  and  every  sweep  of  the  oars  took  them 
farther  away  from  the  shore.  In  spite  of  herself  she 
turned  her  head  and  looked  back  at  the  island,  and  the 


■HI 


A    BIG    CATCH. 


67 


first  object  that  caught  her  eye  was  the  g-listening 
scales  of  the  muscallonge  lying  on  the  bank.  She  gave 
vent  to  a  piercing  scream. 

^'■Philander!  Stop  the  boat!  Turn  around  this  min- 
ute and  go  back  after  that  fish." 

"  Well,  he's  yours,  is  he? " 

"Yes,  he's  mine — he's  anybody's;  only  go  and  git 
him." 

"Tell  you  what  you  can  do  with  him,  Gabe,"  said 
Philander,  turning  the  boat  and  rowing  to  the  island, 
"  you  can  make  a  present  of  him  to  your  father  and 
mother,  with  your  compliments  and  mine,  and  I'll 
invite  myself  up  to  your  house  for  dinner  to-morrow, 
and  we'll  see  what  he  tastes  like." 

"  Philander,  you've  got  a  heart  as  big  as  a  washtub, 
and  it's  a  good  deal  better  than  it's  big.  PU  cook  a 
piece  of  the  'lunge  for  you  myself." 

And  Philander  was  better  pleased  with  that  than  he 
would  have  been  had  he  caught  all  the  fish  in  Lake 
Scugog. 


mmmm 


VII. 
A   CRADLING   MATCH. 


TWTOSQUITOES  were  the  natural  pests  of  the  Non- 
^^^  quon,  and  the  use  of  screens  for  doors  and  win- 
dows had  not  yet  entered  into  the  philosophy  of  the 
inhabitants.  During  the  hot  summer  nights  no  lights 
were  permissible  indoors,  on  account  of  its  attractive- 
ness for  these  tiny  marauders,  and  in  front  of  nearly 
every  dwelling  of  an  evening  sat  a  family  with  a 
"smudge"  in  their  midst;  alternately  blinking  at  the 
blinding  smoke  and  striking  out  vigorously  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  buzzing  sound  made  by  a  daring  member  of 
the  hated  tribe.  These  "smudges"  were  made  by 
building  a  small  fire  in  the  dooryard,  and  then  throwing 
dirty  chips  or  refuse  on  it,  to  make  it  smolder  and 
smoke.  Between  the  two  evils  of  irritating  mosquito- 
bites  on  the  one  hand  and  tear-bedimmed  eyes  from 
the  smoke  on  the  other,  the  inhabitants  had  a  sorry 
choice;  but  the  smart  from  the  smoke  did  not  last  quite 
so  long  as  that  from  the  mosquito-bite,  so  they  pretty 
generally  submitted  to  the  smoke. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Prosper  Tryne  to  a 
group  sitting  in  front  of  his  store  one  evening,  "  there 
ain't  no  smudge  equal  to  one  made  from  cedar  boughs." 

"  That's  all  you  know  about  it,"  blurted  out  B'gob-sir 
Brown,  making  a  desperate  pass  at  a  miniature  demon 
that  had  settled  behind  his  ear.  "  The  blamed  spunky, 
good-for-nothing,  man-eatin'  little  d-d-devils,  they  jest 

(68) 


] 


^Sm 


A   CRADLING    MATCH. 


59 


seem  to  enjoy  vsuch  smoke  as  this.  And  I  can't  say  I 
admire  their  taste,"  he  continued,  rubbing"  his  bleary 
eyes  in  misery. 

"  Well,  I  didn't  s'pose  it  wasgoin'  to  make  you  swear," 
said  Prosper,  with  a  sanctimonious  air,  which  added 
fuel  to  the  flame  of  the  old  fellow's  wrath. 

"  Why,  b'gob-sir,"  he  said,  jumping  up  and  pointing 
his  finger  at  Prosper,  "  you  needn't  p'etend  to  be  so 
horrified  at  what  a  person  says.  Jest  clean  your  own 
boots,  will  you?  I'd  ruther  say  '  damn  it '  a  dozen  times 
a  day,  if  I  felt  like  it,  than  to  cork  up  my  meanness 
inside  o'  me  for  the  sake  of  appearin'  all  right  before 
folks,  and  then  when  I  thought  no  one  was  lookin' 
spittin'  it  out  onto  some  poor  critter  that  couldn't  take 
its  own  part.     Oh,  I — " 

"  Here,  you  sit  down,  and  stop  quarreling,"  said  some 
one  in  the  group,  pulling  his  coat-tail. 

He  sat  down,  still  shaking  his  head  and  muttering 
to  himself  something  about  "  hypocercy,"  *'  church 
folks,"  etc. 

Evidently  he  was  in  bad  humor  this  evening.  Pros- 
per went  into  the  store  a  moment  for  something,  and 
the  old  fellow,  not  content  with  what  he  had  said  to  his 
face,  assailed  him  behind  his  back. 

"  This  smoke  puts  me  a  good  bit  in  mind  of  Prosper's 
religion,"  he  said;  '' 'tain't  good  for  much  but  to  blind 
folks." 

The  laugh  that  followed  this  made  him  forget  his 
anger,  and  the  conversation  changed  to  the  more  peace- 
ful topic  of  the  crops. 

"  I  seen  Donald  McFarlane  cradlin'  in  that  field  of 
fall  wheat  as  I  come  along  to-night,  and  I  tell  you 
that  young  feller  swings  a  cradle  the  slickest  of   any- 


60 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


,1 


t 


thing  I  ever  seen.  It  was  long  after  dark,  when  every- 
body else  had  quit  work,  and  yet  he  was  slashin'  down 
the  grain  as  if  it  was  play  for  him." 

"Yes,"  said  another  member  of  the  party,  moving 
around  to  the  windward  side  of  the  smudge,  "  I  believe 
Donald  can  cut  more  grain  in  a  day  than  any  young 
feller  around  here." 

Prosper  just  came  out  of  the  store  in  time  to  hear 
this  latter  remark. 

"Well,  now,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said,  dubi- 
ously. "  You  haven't  seen  my  boy  Miley  cradle  wheat 
yet.  He's  been  workin'  down  south  this  summer  for 
old  man  Harvey,  and  they  say  he  is  a  dinger  with  the 
cradle." 

"  Bet  you  $4  Donald  can  cradle  more  wheat  in  a  day 
than  he  can,"  spoke  up  Philander  Hunt,  who  had  been 
a  quiet  listener  till  now. 

"  Oh,  I  never  bet,"  said  Prosper,  suddenly  remember- 
ing that  the  next  day  was  vSunday.  "  You  know  I 
don't  bet.  Tell  you  what  I'll  do,  though.  I'll  agree  to 
give  $4  to  the  Sunday-school  if  Donald  wins,  and  you 
give  four  if  Miley  wins." 

"  All  right,"  said  Philander. 

Prosper  went  coughing  back  into  the  store  again, 
after  encountering  a  dense  wreath  of  smoke  in  his  face. 

"  Philander,  can't  3'ou  seethe  length  of  your  nose?" 
exclaimed  B'gob-sir.  "Who  d'you  s'pose  handles  the 
Sunday-school  money?  Wh}-,  it's  Prosper  himself,  and 
he  hain't  much  idee  of  losin'  anything  on  that  bet,  I 
can  tell  you." 

"  Well,  I  hain't  much  idee  of  losin'  cither,  for  Donald 
can  beat  Miley  any  day." 

"  Don't   know   about   that.     Miley's   a   smart  young 


r 


A    CRADLING    MATCH. 


01 


I 


chap,  I  want  you  to  know,  even  if  he  is  Prosper's  lioy. 
Guess  he  takes  it  from  his  mother." 

"Oh,  I  know  a  way  to  make  Donald  beat  him,"  said 
Philander,  significantly. 

"  How?  " 

"Jest  leave  that  to  me,"  waving  his  hand  in  front  of 
him  to  drive  away  the  smoke. 

*'  Well,  when  do  you  want  thiscradlin'  match  to  come 
ofY?  "  asked  Prosper,  coming  to  the  door  again. 

"  When  that  fourteen  acres  of  Bonaventure's  is  ripe," 
answered  Philander,  pointing  over  toward  the  Mc- 
Ghjrrics. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Nothin',  only  I  want  the  match  to  come  off  in  that 
field  of  wheat." 

"  Why  not  have  it  on  Mrs.  McFarlane's  place,  or  down 
to  Harvey's,  where  Miley  works?  " 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place  Mrs.  McFarlane  wouldn't 
have  the  match  held  on  her  farm,  and  in  the  second 
place  Donald  wouldn't  go  down  to  Harvey's  to  cradle, 
and  in  the  third,  fourth,  fifth,  and  up  to  the  five  hun- 
dredth place,  I  won't  agree  to  it  bein'  held  anywhere 
else,  only  at  Bonaventure's." 

The  day  of  the  match  brought  with  it  a  high 
degree  of  excitement  around  the  Nonquon,  Every 
one  appeared  interested  in  the  outcome,  with  the  pos- 
sible exception  of  Gabriellc,  who,  if  one  might  judge 
from  outward  evidence,  cared  not  the  toss  of  a  feather 
which  would  win.  The  sun  rose  over  the  lake  with  a 
bright  glare,  and  every  one  predicted  a  hot  day. 

"  It's  goin'  to  be  a  scorcher,  boys,"  Philander  said  to 
the  contestants  as  they  stood  whetting  their  scythes 
preparatory  to  the  start.     The  two  young  fellows  were 


11 


63 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


the  best  of  friends,  and  while  each  was  bent  on  win- 
ning, yet  there  was  little  likelihood  of  hard  feelings 
between  them,  no  matter  which  way  the  issue  went. 

"  If  it  gets  too  blamed  hot  in  the  middle  of  the  day, 
Donald,  I'm  goin'  to  lay  down  in  the  shade  and  take  it 
easy,  win  or  no  win,"  said  Miles,  looking  out  over  the 
waving  wheat.  Of  course  he  was  by  no  means  so 
imconcerned  about  winning  as  he  pretended  to  be;  and 
neither  was  Donald,  when  he  answered  in  his  quiet 
Scotch  way,  with  a  mild  twinkle  in  his  eye,  *'  Very 
well.  Miles;  I  think  I'll  lie  down  beside  you." 

The  field  was  divided  into  two  equal  parts,  giving 
each  seven  acres  to  cut.  Lots  were  cast  for  the  two 
sides  of  the  field.  That  standing  nearest  the  house  fell 
to  Donald,  and  Philander  thought  he  saw  a  more 
settled  look  of  determination  on  Donald's  face  when  he 
heard  this.  The  greater  part  of  this  side  was  within 
full  view  of  the  house,  and  the  fact  was  that  Philander 
knew  what  he  was  doing  when  he  insisted  on  having 
the  match  held  at  Bonaventure's.  He  probably  would 
have  smiled  had  any  one  remarked  to  him  about 
Gabrielle's  unconcern  in  the  matter. 

The  young  fellows  started  in  with  long,  swinging 
strokes,  and  the  grain  fell  plentifully  at  each  sweep  of 
the  cradles.  For  the  first  hour  or  two  it  was  difficult  to 
tell  which  made  the  greater  progress.  Donald's  gait  was 
certainly  slower  than  Miles',  but  he  kept  persistently  at 
it,  and  did  not  stop  so  often  to  whet  his  scythe. 

"Miley's  goin'  to  win  the  match,  sure's  preachin'," 
prophesied  B'gob-sir  about  the  middle  of  the  forenoon. 
"He  can  stop  cradlin'  as  often  as  he  likes,  and  take  a  rest 
whenever  he  w^ants  to,  and  yet  he  holds  his  end  up  and 
gets  over  as  much  ground  as  Donald.     I  don't  know," 


)i 


A    CRADLING    MATCH. 


G3 


he  added,  shading-  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  looking 
carefully  over  the  field,  *'  but  what  he's  already  got  the 
most  stubble  on  his  side.     Oh,  he's  goin'  to  win." 

**  The  wheat  ain't  all  cut  yet,"  remarked  Philander, 
sententiously. 

Bonaventure,  who  was  standing  near,  simply  shook 
his  head.  "  I  don't  want  either  of  the  boys  to  hurt 
himself,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  toward  the  house  to  see 
how  the  "  women  folks  "  were  getting  along  with  the 
dinner. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  from  a  clear  sky  with  an 
intensity  which  threatened  to  scorch  everything  to  a 
crisp.  Waves  of  heat  flared  up  from  stumps  and  stones, 
and  floated  away  over  the  yellow  heads  of  grain. 
Grasshoppers  jumped  here  and  there  with  a  rasping, 
creaking  noise,  as  if  the  sun  had  burned  the  oil  from 
their  machinery.  The  dog  vSancho,  who  almost  always 
accompanied  his  master,  slunk  away  into  a  corner  of 
the  fence,  and  lay  there  with  his  tongue  out  and  his 
mouth  drooling  at  the  corners. 

"Whew!"  exclaimed  B'gob-sir,  as  he  wilted  down 
under  a  tree  and  took  off  his  hat  to  fan  himself. 
"  This  is  what  you  might  call  hotter  'n  love  in  dog- 
days.  It  almost  seems  's  if  the  sun  and  earth  was  a 
strikin'  fire.  Why,  b'gob-sir,  you  could  set  a  pail  o' 
water  out  there  in  the  sun  and  it'd  soon  be  hot  enough 
to  bile  trace-chains  in.  That  last  lot  o'  whisky  Jerry 
got  in  — " 

*'Oh,  don't  mention  whisky  such  a  day  as  this,"  inter- 
posed Philander. 

''Well,  that's  all  right.  I  was  jest  goin'  to  give  you 
my  opinion  of  that  whisky,  but  if  you  don't  want  to 
hear  it,  why,  I  guess  I  know  how  to  button  my  lip." 


64 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


'*  Button  her  up  tight  on  that  head." 

Philander  had  heard  B'gob-sir's  opinion  on  "  that  last 
lot  o'  whisky  "  so  many  times  already  that  his  impo- 
liteness was  pardonable. 

Of  course  the  contestants  in  the  cradling-  match  were 
to  take  dinner  with  Bonaventure,  and  when  Mrs. 
McGlorrie  blew  the  dinner-horn,  Philander  and  B'gob- 
sir  walked  with  them  down  to  the  house,  and  then 
turned  up  the  path  toward  the  village,  the  latter 
meanwhile  casting  a  wistful  look  into  the  kitchen, 
whence  came  the  tempting  odor  of  cookery. 

"Come  in,  gentlemen,  and  keep  us  company  at  din- 
ner," said  Bonaventure.  "  We've  plates  on  the  table 
for  you." 

"Well,  now,  I  don't  understand  this,"  exclaimed 
B'gob-sir.  "  I'd  no  idee  of  any  such  a  thing  as  this,  and 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  make  up  my  mind  to  impose  on 
you  folks  this  way.  Guess  I'd  better  go  on  down  to 
Jerry's  to  dinner,  as  usual."  All  the  while  the  old  fel- 
low was  edging  toward  the  door,  and  had  even  taken 
off  his  hat.  But  Philander  was  not  so  easily  persuaded, 
and  was  bent  on  going  home,  till  Gabrielle  came  to  the 
door  and  said,  in  a  strangely  softened  voice: 

"  Now,  Philander,"  and  then,  rushing  out  to  where  he 
stood,  she  took  him  by  the  arm,  blushing  to  the  roots  of 
her  glorious  hair  for  some  reason,  and  led  him  to  the 
house. 

"  No  use  tryin'  to  back  out  when  Gabe  takes  a  feller 
in  hand,"  said  Philander,  smiling. 

During  the  meal  Donald  was  awkward,  as  usual,  and 
quiet.  Gabrielle  was  quiet,  but  not  awkward.  She 
waited  on  the  table,  and  the  dishes  moved  under  her 
hand  as  if  by  magic;   at  least  so  it  seemed  to  Donald. 


I 


A    CRADLING    MATCH. 


G5 


I 


And  he  was  perhaps  not  the  only  one  who  thought  her 
expert,  for  Philander  remarked  that  "  Gabe  was  a  natu- 
ral-born housekeeper,  if  ever  there  was  one." 

"Yes,  indeed,  that  she  is,"  exclaimed  Bonaventure, 
who  was  proud  of  his  daughter,  and  approved  of  giving 
her  a  compliment  occasionally. 

"  Yes,  and  Gabe  is  never  going  to  get  married,"  piped 
in  little  Dcnnie.  "An'  I'm  never  goin'  to  get  married 
either.  We've  got  it  made  up  between  us  to  live 
together  always,  and  Gabe  is  goin'  to  keep  house  for 
me,  and  I'm  to  make  a  living  for  us  both.  Ain't  we, 
Gabe? " 

"Of  course,  Dennie." 

But  what  could  have  made  her  blush  so  when  they  all 
laughed  at  Dennie's  remark?  Gabrielle  came  nearly 
being  awkward  after  that;  at  least  she  almost  dropped 
a  dish  once  or  twice,  and  was  apparently  ill  at  ease  dur- 
ing the  rest  of  the  meal. 

As  the  men  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  down  by  the 
stable  after  dinner,  B'gob-sir  ruminated  over  *hc  rebuff 
Philander  had  given  him  about  his  opinion  of  Jerry's 
last  lot  of  whisk}^,  and  thought  it  a  good  chance  to  get 
even  with  him. 

"  Say,  Philander,  now  come  right  out  and  acknowl- 
edge the  corn.  Git  down  to  hard-pan  for  once,  and 
admit  the  truth  of  the  matter.  I  know  it's  pressin'  you 
perty  hard,  but  you  might  as  well  out  with  it  first  as 
last.  Who  ketched  that  'lunge  you  and  Gabrielle 
brought  home  the  day  you  was  out  trollin'?  You  didn't 
ketch  him  yourself,  I'll  bet  a  bottle  of — I'll  bet  my  best 
pair  of  boots  on  that.  I  guess  you  got  him  from  the 
Injuns,  didn't  you?  Come  now,  let's  have  the  hull  facts 
in  the  case." 


I 


66 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


"Well,"  said  Philander,  with  some  hesitation,  "if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  I  didn't  catch  him." 

*'  What  did  I  tell  you? "  exclaimed  the  old  fellow, 
enthusiastically,  jumping  to  his  feet  and  looking  around 
at  the  otliers  as  if  he  had  at  last  exposed  the  impostor. 
"Why,  b'gob-sir,  I  knowed  it  all  along.  When — you — 
undertake — to — pull — the — wool — over — the — eyes  —  of 
— a — man  —  of — the — name — of — Brown, — you'd — bet- 
ter— hire — out — to — a — cardin'-mill  —  for  —  a  —  spell, — 
and — learn — more  —  about  —  the  —  kind  —  of  —  wool  — 
you're— usin'.  Well  now,  who'd  you  buy  him  of?  You 
might  as  well  tell  us  that." 

"  Didn't  buy  him  of  anybody." 

"  Well,  who  give  him  to  you? " 

"No  one." 

"  What?  " 

"  No  one,  I  said," 

"  What  do  you  mean? " 

"  Mean  what  I  say." 

"Well,  but— well  now,  what — what  in  the  name  o* 
snakes  arc  you  tryin'  to  git  through  you,  Philander? 
There's  a  lie  out  some  place." 

"  Not  unless  it's  on  your  side." 

"  You — say — you — didn't — ketch — that — 'lunge? " 

"Yes," 

"  And  you  didn't  buy  him  of  any  one? " 

"  No." 

"  And  no  person  give  him  to  you?  " 

"  No." 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  know  ho--  n  the  dickens  you  come 
by  him,  then." 

"  Gabe  caught  hi^  .. 

"  Why,  I  thoug'i      '^u  .  .     you — well  you  told — 


A   CRADLING    MATCH. 


67 


Humph!  Some  folks  think  they're  so  c-c-ciissed  sharp, 
anyway."  And  he  walked  off  along  by  the  fence,  mut- 
tering to  himself. 

Not  a  word  had  been  said  during  the  noon  hour 
about  the  prospective  outcome  of  the  match,  but  it  was 
plainly  evident  to  all — and  to  Donald  particularly — 
that  Miley  had  cut  the  most  wheat  in  the  forenoon. 
The  Scotch  boy,  accordingly,  threw  one  suspender 
from  his  shoulder,  letting  it  hang  at  his  side,  and 
started  in  at  a  pace  that  indicated  a  struggle.  And 
there  was  one. 

The  morning's  work  was  play  to  what  the  afternoon 
developed.  The  perspiration — that  safety-valve  of  hot 
humanity — poured  down  their  backs,  leaving  great  wet 
streaks  on  their  cotton  shirts.  Donald  plodded  along 
with  grim  determination,  scarcely  raising  his  eyes  from 
his  work.  The  air  was  hot  to  breathe,  the  stubble 
cracked  under  his  boots,  his  eyes  were  blurred  with 
the  heat  and  the  dripping  perspiration,  his  lips  felt 
parched  and  dry,  his  tongue  cleaved  unpleasantly  to 
the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  the  terrible  exertion  began 
to  distress  him.  As  he  was  crossing  the  lower  end  of 
the  field  he  suddenly  came  to  a  tin  pail  sitting  in  the 
swath  he  was  just  cutting.  It  was  placed  where  he 
could  not  possibly  avoid  it,  and  on  picking  it  up  he 
found  it  half-filled  with  cold  spring-water,  into  which 
had  been  dropped  some  oatmeal.  Was  there  ever  a 
more  refreshing  drink  than  this?  Donald  thought  not, 
and  as  he  replaced  the  lid  after  gratifying  his  thirst  he 
cast  his  eye  across  the  field  to  see  if  he  might  discover 
who  had  brought  it  for  him.  His  first  idea  was  that  it 
must  be  Philander,  but  he  remembered  seeing  him 
walk  down  the  road  toward  the  village.    All  at  once  he 


G8 


THE   HERMIT    OF   THE    NONQUON. 


li 


31     I 


thought  of  something  that  he  dare  not  think  of.  He 
quickly  put  down  the  pail  and  started  cradling  with 
new  vigor,  both  physically  and  mentally.  He  was 
determined  to  win  that  match.  When  he  made  the 
next  round  the  pail  was  gone.  Once  again  during  the 
afternoon  he  found  it  sitting  in  the  wheat,  with  the 
cool,  delicious — no  other  word  would  have  suited  Don- 
ald— oatmeal-water  in  it. 

He  finished  his  seven  acres  at  least  half  an  hour 
ahead  of  Miles,  who  toiled  through  to  the  end  as  if  it 
were  the  longest  half-hour  of  his  life. 

"  Miles,"  said  Donald,  going  up  and  shaking  hands 
with  him,  **  I  wouldn't  repeat  that  day's  work  for  all  the 
wheat  we  cut.  If  ever  I  cradle  another  match  I'll  pick 
out  an  easier  man  to  cradle  against.'' 

"  The  trouble  with  me  WvT,s  that  I  put  into  it  too  hard 
in  the  early  part  of  the  day  and  played  myself  out," 
remarked  Miles. 

Was  there  ever  a  son  of  Adam  who  could  accept 
defeat  without  offering  an  excuse  for  it? 

"  Well,  Prosper,"  said  Philander,  as  they  were  all 
assembled  at  the  store  in  the  evening,  "  I  suppose  your 
pocket-book  will  be  $4  lighter  to-night  and  tlie  Sun- 
day-school $4  richer? " 

**  Don't  know  about  that,"  answered  the  storekeeper, 
with  a  queer  look  in  his  eye. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well,  what  do  j'ou  mean?  " 

*' Why,  that  was  the  agreement.  I  was  to  give  $4  if 
Miley  won,  and  you  was  to  give  $4  if  Donald  won." 

*'  I  know;  but  I  can't  see  as  either  of  them  won." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out?  Donald  got  through 
half  an  hour  sooner  than  Miley." 


A    CRADLING    MATCH. 


69 


"  I  don't  see  as  that  has  anything  particular  to  do 
with  it." 

"You  don't?" 

"No." 

"  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  you're  driving-  at.  We 
divided  that  fourteen  acres  into  two  equal  parts,  and 
the  one  that  finished  his  half  first  was  to  be  the  winner, 
wasn't  he? " 

"  Well,  not  exactly.  You  forgit  what  you  said  when 
you  first  give  mo  the  bluff.  You  said  you'd  bet  me 
$4  that  Donald  could  cradle  more  wheat  in  a  day  than 
Milcy  could.  Now  you  said  just  a  minute  ago  that  the 
field  was  divided  into  two  equal  parts.  Accordin'  to 
that  Miley  cut  just  as  much  wheat  as  Donald.  Takin' 
you  at  your  own  word,  don't  you  sec?  Oh,  no,  I  can't 
pay  out  any  $4  on  such  a  bet  as  that." 

And  he  never  did. 


VIII. 


' « III-  ■ , 

lilli    : 


A   BATTLE   WITH   TURNIPS. 

1\  TRS.  McFARLANE  held  little  communion  with 
•^'-*-  the  inhabitants  of  the  Nonquon  village.  Her 
sympathies  lay  for  the  most  part  toward  the  Scotch 
settlement  farther  north,  and  she  looked  with  little 
favor  upon  Donald's  intimacy — such  as  it  was — with 
the  villagers.  The  one  individual  around  the  Nonquon 
who  held  her  esteem  was  Bonaventure,  but  for  that 
matter  he  was  esteemed  by  every  one  who  knew  him. 

"  Now,  McGlorrie,  what  think  you?  "  she  called  to 
Bonaventure  one  morning  as  he  was  passing  her  place. 
"  I  hear  that  Prosper  Tryne  is  saying  that  he  will  not 
be  trusting  me  for  any  more  things  at  his  store.  The 
good-for-nothing  make-believe!  I  naver  was  owing  him 
so  much  as  the  price  of  a  pail  of  swill  in  my  life." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  McFarlane,  I  don't  think  Prosper  would 
say  such  a  thing  as  that  about  you.  He  would  be  glad, 
I  am  sure,  to  give  you  all  the  credit  you  want.  vSome 
one  has  been  trying  to  make  mischief,  and  you  shouldn't 
listen  to  such  reports  as  that." 

"Trying  to  make  mischief;  that's  what  they  are;  and 
that's  all  they  have  to  think  about  down  in  the  village. 
The  good-for-nothing  lazy  lot.  They  naver  do  a  day's 
work,  but  just  sit  around  and  smoke  and  spet,  and  spet 
and  smoke.  And  then  they  go  tramping  all  over  a 
body's  farm  hunting  the  poor  foxes  that  naver  harmed 
them,  and — " 

(70) 


A    BATTLE    WITH    TURNIPS. 


71 


"  But,  Mrs.  McFarlane,  I  thought  you  said  the  foxes 
were  eating  all  of  your  pullets  last  winter." 

"  Eating  my  pul-lets;  and  that's  what  they  were,  the 
good-for-nothing  thiev-ing  beasts.  I  will  be  setting  a 
trap  for  them,  if  they  will  be  up  to  their  old  tricks 
again  this  year,  the  mis-erable  scamps!  Mr.  McGlorrie, 
look  you  over  here  in  the  yard,  and  see  what  a  fine  lot 
of  lye  I  have  been  running  off.  It's  all  from  the  ashes 
of  beech  and  maple,  too;  but  I'm  afeard  it  will  every 
bit  spoil  for  want  of  boiling." 

"  Why  don't  you  send  down  to  my  place  and  get  the 
big  kettle  to  boil  it  in?  " 

"Tone-alt!  Tone-alt!"  she  shouted,  looking  toward 
the  barnyard  where  Donald  was  engaged.  *'  Tone-alt, 
hear  you  what  Mr.  McGlorrie  says?  You're  to  go  down 
and  get  his  ketash  poh-tal  to  boil  soap.  Yes,  Mr. 
McGlorrie,"  turning  to  him  again,  "  if  Tone-alt  be 
speercd  we'll  have  a  ketash  poh-tal  of  ower  ain  in 
another  'ear.  Well,  good-by;  I  must  be  going  to  see  if 
the  black  soo  is  in  the  garden,  the  old  hus-sy." 

After  Bonaventure  had  gone  on  his  way,  she  trudged 
over  to  the  barnyard,  and  said: 

"  Tone-alt,  I  canna  see  the  old  black  soo  any  place. 
She  must  be  in  the  garden.  Here,  Tow-ser,  come  you 
with  me  and  we  will  drive  her  out,  the  old  hus-sy." 

Towser,  with  one  ear  on  the  alert,  leaped  over  the 
fence,  and  began  to  make  a  noisy  circuit  of  the  garden. 
Mrs.  McFarlane,  with  increasing  fire  in  her  eye,  fol- 
lowed after,  and  disappeared  around  the  other  side  of 
the  house,  shaking  her  head  and  muttering  vengeance 
on  the  old  sow  as  she  went.  She  soon  appeared  again, 
and  calling  to  Donald,  said: 

"  Tone-alt!  come  you  and  help  me  find  the  old  soo. 


73 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


She  must  be  here  in  the  g-arden  some  place,  I  think. 
Maybe  she  is  under  the  house,  the  old  hus-sy.  Here, 
Towser,  si-boy,  si-boy!  ' 

"  Why,  mother,  here  is  the  old  sow  lying-  in  her  pen 
all  the  while.     She  has  never  been  near  the  j^arden." 

"  Ljang-  in  her  pen  is  she?  The  old  hus-sy.  I'll 
have  her  to  know — " 

But  Donald  heard  no  more,  as  the  old  lady  disappeared 
beyond  the  wood-pile  to  put  a  fresh  pail  of  water  on 
the  leach. 

Other  people  usually  made  their  soap  in  the  spring-, 
but  Mrs.  McFarlane  was  liable  to  start  her  leach  going 
at  any  season,  and  it  seemed  to  Donald  that  she  took 
an  especial  delight  in  making  soap  as  often  as  possible 
on  account  of  the  excuse  it  gave  her  for  borrowing 
somebody's  kettle.  Two  things  were  mysteries — 
where  she  got  so  many  ashes  and  what  she  did  with  all 
of  the  soap. 

"Tone-alt,"  she  said  one  day,  somewhat  later,  "it  is 
time  we  are  digging  the  tarnips.  It  will  be  freez-ing, 
and  the  snow  wall  be  coming,  if  we  do  not  get  them 
in.  (jo  you  and  dig  a  pit,  and  we  will  begin  on  the 
morrow." 

'*  What  are  we  going  to  use  to  cover  the  turnips  with 
in  the  pit  before  we  put  the  dirt  on  them?  We've  no 
pea-straw  this  year.  T  think  I'd  better  go  down  in  the 
swamp  and  cut  some  green  brush." 

"Green  presh!  Green  prcsh,  did  you  say,  Tone-alt? 
Well,  I  naver!  Bless  me,  what  a  boy!  You'll  do  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  Tone-alt.  Go  you  over  to  Tougald 
McLaughlin's  and  borrow  some  pea-straw." 

Donald  would  much  rather  have  labored  with  the 
brush  than  to  go  on  a  borrowing  expedition,  but  his 


A    BATTLE    WITH    TURNIPS, 


73 


mother's  attitude  on  the  question  left  him  no  alterna- 
t  '>  ve. 

The  MeFarlanes  had  not  yet  risen  to  the  dignity  of 
owning  a  root-house,  and  were  obliged  to  keep  their 
turnips  from  freezing  by  using  a  pit  or  trench.  This 
was  lined  with  straw,  and  the  turnips  thrown  in  and 
piled  lip  to  a  gable  shape,  after  which  more  straw  was 
scattered  over  them,  and  finally  earth  thrown  on  them 
to  a  depth  which  prevented  freezing.  Mrs.  McFar- 
lane  was  never  quite  happy  from  the  time  the  first 
autumn  chill  was  felt  in  the  air  till  her  turnips  were 
safely  housed  in  this  fashion.  She  always  insisted  on 
going  out  into  the  field  herself  to  help  gather  them  in, 
and  if  the  truth  be  told,  she  was  no  mean  manipulator 
of  her  favorite  root.  She  could  handle  more  turnips 
than  the  average  man. 

This  year,  when  the  pit  was  well  filled,  they  had  nearly 
half  a  wagon-load  over,  and  she  said  to  Donald: 

"  Go  you  on  and  bank  over  the  pit,  while  I  drive  these 
in  the  wagon  down  to  Mr.  McGlorrie.  He  has  no  tar- 
nips  this  year,  and  I  will  be  taking  these  to  him." 

"  You'd  best  let  me  put  his  kettle  in  the  wagon  too, 
and  take  that  home.     You've  got  your  soap  all  boiled." 

"  Naver  you  mind,  Tone-alt.  I  will  be  asking  Mr. 
McGlorrie  for  his  flail,  when  I  am  taking  him  the  tar- 
nips,  and  the  flail  and  kettle  can  go  back  together." 

"  What  do  you  want  with  his  flail,  mother?  We  have 
one  already."  Donald  was  in  despair.  She  looked 
around  severely  at  him,  and  said: 

"  Tone-alt,  I  will  be  helping  you  this  year  with  the 
threshing,  and  we  will  want  two  flails." 

"  Why,  mother,  I  can  easily  do  the  threshing  myself, 
and  anyhow,  if  you  want  a  flail  I  can  make  you  one." 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


"  Naver  you  mind,  Tone-alt.  Go  on  with  your  work," 
she  said,  significantly,  as  she  drove  away. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  McGlorries.  she  drove  up  in 
front  of  the  door  and  shouted: 

''  Mr.McGlorric!  " 

Mrs,  McGlorrie  appeared  at  the  door,  with  her  sleeves 
rolled  up  and  her  hands  white  with  flour  from  mixing 
bread.  Evidently  she  was  very  busy,  and  was  impatient 
with  an  interruption  of  any  kind,  least  of  all  from  the 
woman  who  was  always  trying  to  borrow  something. 

"  My  husband  is  not  at  home,"  she  said,  with  a  tone 
of  dismissal  in  her  voice. 

Mrs.  MeFarlane  sat  like  a  statue  in  her  wagon  a  mo- 
ment, and  then,  evidently  bent  on  being  conciliatory, 
she  turned  her  head,  and,  looking  back  into  the  wagon- 
box,  asked  if  i\Irs.  McGlorrie  had  any  room  in  her 
cellar. 

Mrs.  McGlorrie  jumped  at  the  conclusion  that  she 
was  going  to  ask  the  privilege  of  storing  something  in 
the  cellar  for  the  winter.  "  Jist  like  her',"  she  thought 
to  herself.  "Jist  like  her.  She'll  want  to  borry  the 
rail  finces  next,  and  then  the  house  and  barn,  and 
fin'Uy  the  whole  farm.  Plague  take  her!"  And  then, 
speaking  aloud,  she  snapped  out: 

"  No,  I  haven't." 

The  Scotch  woman's  resentment  began  to  kindle  in 
spite  of  her.  vShe  stood  up  in  the  wagon,  with  fire  in 
her  eye,  and  pointing  her  bony  finger  at  the  turnips, 
began : 

*'  Here's  as  fine  a  lot  of  tarnips — " 

Just  then  Mrs.  McGlorrie  smelled  her  bread  burning, 
and  breaking  into  Mrs.  McFarlane's  speech,  she 
exclaimed: 


A    BATTLE    WITH    TURNIPS. 


75 


"  Well,  you  can't  leave  your  turnips  here;  I  can  tell 
you  that  now.  You  can  take  care  of  'em  yourself. 
My  bread's  burning,  and  I've  no  time  to  talk  with  you. 
Take  your  old  turnips  away."  She  hurried  into  the 
house,  slamming  the  door  after  her. 

Mrs.  McFarlane  was  furious.  Jumping  in  among  the 
turnips,  she  seized  a  large  one  and  flimg  it  viciously  at 
Mrs.  McGlorrie's  door. 

"  The  good-for-nothing  hus-sy!  I'll  have  her  to 
know — "  And  bang!  went  a  second  turnip  against  the 
door,  breaking  it  open.  *'  Your  bradc  is  burn-ing,  is 
it?  "  she  yelled.  "  Come  you  out  here,  and  I'll  break 
your  bones,  you  good-for-nothing.  You  won't  have 
my  tarnips,  hey?"  And  an  incessant  shower  flew  from 
the  wagon  into  Mrs.  McGlorrie's  kitchen,  rolling  all 
over  the  floor. 

The  Irishwoman  was  soon  aroused  to  defense,  and 
forgetting  all  about  her  bread,  she  seized  some  of  the 
turnips  and  began  flinging  them  back  at  her  assailant. 

A  vigorous  flow  of  words  and  turnips  followed. 
"  You  old  hus-sy  " — "  You  murtherin'  old  hathen  you  " 
— "  I'll  have  you  to  know" — "  You  dirty  old  throllop, 
take  that,  will  you?" — "  You  Irish  soo,  I'll  be  breaking 
your  bones  " — **  Oh,  hear  that  now,  will  ye?  You  old 
Scotch  vagabond,  I'll  smash  your  skull  with  a  skillet." 

It  was  a  battle  royal  between  the  Scotch  and  Irish, 
fought  out  on  Colonial  soil,  but  the  woman  in  the 
wagon  having  the  "  coigne  of  vantage  "  may  be  said  to 
have  come  off  victorious.  vShe  threw  the  last  turnip 
from  the  wagon,  and  muttering  a  final  imprecation  on 
the  head  of  her  antagonist,  drove  off,  leaving  behind 
her  in  Mrs.  McGlorrie's  kitchen  a  pile  of  turnips,  and 
in  her  bosom  a  tempest  of  wrath. 


TX. 
THE   DEER-HUNT. 


»  ■ 


ill' 


T^HE  season  of  greatest  activity  around  the  Nonquon 
■'■  was  approaching-.  During  the  fall  and  winter 
months  the  inhabitants  were  more  in  their  native  ele- 
ment than  at  any  other  time.  Hunting  and  lumbering 
suited  the  taste  of  the  average  Nonquonite  better  than 
the  pursuit  of  the  plow;  and  there  were  several  log- 
ging-camps in  the  vicinity,  which  annually  supplied  the 
material  for  the  saw-mills  at  Port  Rowen,  a  town  situ- 
ated about  eight  miles  from  the  Nonquon,  at  the  foot  of 
the  lake. 

Bonaventure  was  foreman  of  a  camp  down  on  Beaver 
Meadow  Point,  and  had  begun  to  make  preparation 
for  the  winter's  work.  The  cutting  was  mostly  done  in 
the  early  fall,  and  the  logs  "snaked"  into  piles  and 
placed  on  skidways  ready  f*^"  hauling  to  the  lake  with 
sleds  when  the  snow  came.  They  were  then  dinnped 
on  the  ice,  and  each  lot  surrounded  by  boom-timber, 
and  allowed  to  remain  till  the  ice  broke  up  in  the 
spring,  when  they  were  towed  to  Port  Rowen  by  boat. 
Many  of  the  shantymen  were  French,  and  this  rendered 
the  work  very  congenial  to  Bonaventure.  He  was 
filled  with  a  stirring-  animation  from  the  time  the  first 
tree  was  cut  in  the  fall  till  the  last  log-  was  hauled  in 
the  spring. 

"Why,  b'gob-sir,"  Mr.  Brown  used  to  say,  "  Bona- 
venter  is  jest  like  two  different  persons  summer  and 

(76) 


I 


THE   DEER-HUNT. 


77 


winter.  In  summer  he's  like  a  white  man,  and  talks 
like  one,  but  in  winter  he  splutters  around  and  jabbers 
away  jest  like  the  rest  of  them  French  fellers  he  has 
workin'  for  him," 

And  there  was  much  truth  in  this  remark,  for  Bona- 
venture  dropped  quite  naturally  into  the  French  dialect 
the  moment  he  was  broug-ht  into  contact  with  French- 
men. **  Mon  Dieii "  was  a  favorite  expression  of  his 
through  the  winter,  and  one  day  when  B'gob-sir  said  to 
him,  "  Bonaventer,  Fd  like  to  know  what  in  the  dickens 
you  mean  by  '  Mo  Doo,'"  he  answered  with  animation, 
"  Now,  my  fran',  that's  just  it.  That's  the  most  beau-ti- 
ful  word.  *  Mon  Dieu  ' — that  is  what  the  Frenchman 
say  when  he  wish  to  say  'my  goodness.'  Beau-ti-ful 
word,  b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-1." 

He  would  linger  over  a  French  phrase  that  caught 
his  fancy  as  if  he  were  rolling  a  "  sweet  morsel  under 
his  tongue."  His  translations  were  seldom  literally 
correct,  it  is  true,  but  he  usually  caught  the  true  spirit 
of  the  term  after  hearing  it  used  several  times  by  his 
countrymen. 

One  day  in  October  Philander  said  to  him: 

*'  Bonaventure,  you  have  your  cutters  and  skidders 
to  work  now,  and  you'd  better  come  out  with  us  for  a 
deer-hunt  some  day." 

"  Very  well.     Who  is  going? " 

"Jerry — you  know  Jerry  is  a  splendid  shot — and 
Prosper — he's  got  a  good  dog:  and  Barlow  Dreeme  is 
coming  out  from  the  Port  to  go  with  us;  and  then  I 
thought  we'd  take  old  B'gob-sir  along  to  have  some 
fun.  He  has  never  been  out  with  us,  but  is  always 
'  what  a  shooter  he  is.     I  don't  believe  he  ever 


"^ 


ll 


■•toto' 


73 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


aiC'  ! 


shot  anythinjj  in  his  life,  but  we  can  git  some  fun  out 
of  him." 

"All  right;  I'm  ready  any  time." 

The  party  accordingly  .started  one  morning  about  4 
o'clock,  taking  with  them  each  a  gun,  and  the  two  dogs, 
Sancho  and  Mose,  tied  under  the  wagon.  They  were 
to  drive  about  seven  miles  to  a  spot  **  across  the  ma'sh," 
and  leaving  the  horses  tied  to  the  foot-board  of  the 
wagon,  which  was  well  filled  with  hay,  were  going  to 
hunt  in  that  vicinity. 

"  Well,  I  want  to  say  right  here,"  grumbled  old  B'gob- 
sir,  as  he  sat  humped  up  in  the  wagon,  "  that  I  can't  see 
the  pherlosophy  of  gettin'  out  of  bed  and  goin'  joltin' 
over  these  rough  roads  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to 
start  deer.  Why,  b'gob-sir,  the  deer'U  be  asleep  for 
hours  yet.  I  don't  believe  in  goin'  snoopin'  roimd  in 
the  woods  with  nothin'  but  the  stars  blinkin'  at  you, 
tryin'  to  prod  some  deer  up  out  of  a  sound  sleep  with 
the  muzzle  of  a  gun." 

"The  deer'U  be  awake  long  before  we  git  there," 
said  Phiknidcr,  smiling  at  the  old  fellow's  discomfort. 
"  I'll  bet  if  you  was  over  in  the  ma'sh  in  the  right  spot 
this  minute  you'd  see  three  or  four  deer  jest  a  gittin' 
up  out  of  their  bed  of  leaves,  a  shakin'  off  the  dust,  and 
humpin'  their  backs  away  up  in  the  air  to  stretch  them- 
selves." 

"Would,  hey?  Darn  sight  bigger  fools  than  I  ever 
give  'em  credit  for,  then.  Them  blamed  dogs  under 
the  wagon  seem  to  enjoy  this  kind  of  thing.  Caution 
how  much  alike  some  dogs  and  some  men  are." 

"  It's  plain  to  be  seen  you  ain't  much  of  a  hunter," 
laughed  Jerry.  "  You'd  best  go  back  home  and  tend 
bar  while  I'm  gone." 


THE   DEER-HUNT. 


79 


That  was  almost  too  much  for  the  hostler,  who  intui- 
tively cast  a  g-lance  back  toward  the  Nonquon.  This 
broug-ht  such  a  roar  from  the  men  that  he  hitched  him- 
self around  in  his  seat  again,  and  darted  a  threatening 
look  at  his  companions. 

**  Well  now,  I'll  jest  systematically  show  you  fellers 
about  shootin'  before  we  git  home.  You've  dragged 
me  into  this  thing,  and  now  I'm  goin'  to  show  you." 

The  pale  moon  was  just  settling  down  in  the  west, 
and  the  stars,  wearied  with  their  nightly  vigil,  were 
retreating  into  the  depths  of  the  limitless  canopy 
beyond.  It  was  in  that  cold,  gray,  cheerless  hour 
before  the  dawn,  when  the  glories  of  the  night  have  all 
vanished,  and  the  glories  of  the  day  have  not  yet 
arrived;  when  a  chilling  sense  of  misery  steals  over  the 
human  animal  who  chances  to  be  abroad  at  that  hour. 
The  time  when  heavy,  reeking  mists  creep  around 
inanimate  objects  in  field  and  swamp,  rendering  ihcm 
indistinct  and  goblin-like,  and  when  the  atmosphere  is 
dank,  and  cold,  and  irritating  to  the  nostrils. 

"  A  feller'd  think  there  was  frozen  pepper  scattered 
through  the  air  this  morning,"  B'gob-sir  remarked,  after 
they  had  jolted  along  over  the  rough  road  for  some  time 
in  silence.    "Jerry,  did  you  bring  a  bottle  with  you?" 

"Why,  you  wouldn't  expect  me  to  bring  a  bottle  with 
a  party  like  this,  would  you?  " 

"  Well,  that  last  lot  o'  whisky  you  got  in  is  mighty 
poor  stuff,  I  want  to  tell  you.  It's  jest  as  well  you 
didn't  bring  any  of  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  it's  like?  I  thought  you 
said  you  hadn't  tasted  a  drop  of  liquor  in  three  weeks." 

"  Well,  neither  I  have.  I  guess  I  can  tell  liquor, 
though,  when  I  see  it." 


!  I 


80 


THE  HERMIT  OV    THE  NONQUON. 


"Tell  what  it  tastes  like  hy  looking  at  it,  ean  you? 
Sure  you  didn't  jest  smell  of  it?  " 

"  Now  see  here,"  he  answered,  bristlinj^  up,  "  you 
think  you're  goin'  to  corner  nie — " 

"  No  I  don't.  I  was  simply  wondering-  how  you  knew 
anything  about  the  quality  of  that  whisky  without 
tasting  it.     I—" 

"Why,  good  Christianity  among  the  Hottentots,"  he 
thundered  out,  "of  coitrsi'  I  tasted  it.  How  else  would 
I  know?  That  is,  I  didn't  exactly  taste  it,  you  know;  I 
jest  took  a  little  from  the  bottle,  and — well,  I  didn't 
drink  any  of  the  stuff — couldn't  go  it,  you  see — it 
tasted  so  like  all  fury  and  brimstone;  didn't  get  the 
pucker  out  of  my  throat  for  an  hour.  Makes  my 
stomach  frizzle  yet  to  think  of  it.  Sure  you  hain't  got 
a  bottle  here  with  you,  Jerry? " 

Jerry  slipped  a  small  flask  into  his  hand,  and  B'gob-sir, 
tilting  back  his  head,  was  oblivious  to  earthly  woes 
during  the  next  few  seconds. 

"  Mighty  poor  stuff,  I  tell  you,"  he  sighed  as  he 
handed  the  empty  flask  to  the  tavern-keeper.  He  sub- 
mitted, however,  more  complacently  to  the  miseries  of 
the  situation  for  the  remainder  of  their  journey. 

It  was  broad  daylight  by  the  time  they  reached  the 
hunting-ground,  and  after  a  cold  lunch  they  started 
out.  By  common  con.scnt  Philander  was  master  of  the 
hunt.  He  and  Barlow  Dreemc  knew  more  about  the 
ground  than  any  of  the  others.  They  were  conversant 
\vith  all  the  runways,  and  knew  the  best  spots  to 
station  the  men.  B'gob-sir  was  placed  on  a  runway 
not  half  a  mile  from  the  horses  and  wagon.  Jerry  was 
sent  farther  to  the  northeast,  where  two  runways  in- 
tersected, and  Bonaventure  was  to  go  along  down  the 


THE    DKER-HUNT. 


81 


marsh  creek  to  a  point  at  which  the  deer  usually  crossed 
when  too  hard  pressed  in  the  marsh.  IM'osper  Tryne 
said  he  would  stay  around  in  the  vicinity  of  the  camp, 
and  if  the  deer  ran  t(Jo  far  away  he  would  put  in  his 
time  sh(M)tinyf  partridge  and  rabbits.  "I'll  load  one 
barrel  with  buck-shot,"  he  said,  **  in  case  I  see  a  deer, 
and  the  other  with  fine  sh(jt  for  smaller  j^'ame." 

Rifles  were  seldom  used  in  those  days  by  the  Non- 
quonites  for  deer-shooting'.  Double-barreled  jiuns, 
loaded  with  buck-shot  or  a  loall,  formed  die  favorite 
fire-arm. 

Barl(jw  could  go  where  he  pleased,  or  where  occasion 
seemed  to  rec^uire  him  most  throuj^h  the  day.  lie 
started  away  off  toward  the  east,  with  the  evident  con- 
viction that  some  of  the  deer  would  likely  elude  the 
men  in  the  marsh,  and  cross  the  creek  in  the  direction 
of  the  hig'her  timber. 

As  Philander  was  walking  away,  or  rather  being 
dragged  away  by  the  dogs,  down  toward  a  thick  part 
of  the  marsh,  where  he  expected  to  put  them  out, 
B'gob-sir  said  to  him: 

"  Now  see  here.  Philander,  you  ain't  stickin'  me  off 
some  place  where  there  ain't  any  game,  are  you?  I 
come  out  here  for  the  express  purpose  of  shootin'  a  few 
deer,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  hoodwinked  out  of  it." 

"  No,  3'ou're  right  (m  the  main  runway,  where  a  deer 
is  sure  to  pass  you  within  twenty  minutes  from  the 
time  the  dogs  start  it.  Keep  your  wits  about  you,  and 
don't  git  the  'buck  fever  '  and  miss  your  shot." 

"  Buck  fever?     What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well,  that's  a  pretty  bad  give-away.  I  guess  you 
haven't  shot  your  first  deer  yet  or  you  wouldn't  ask 
such  a  question  as  that.     Never  you  mind,  you  jest  go 

6 


U 


iiil 


82 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


on  up  the  runway,  and  you'll  know  soon  enough  what 
'buck  fever '  is." 

B'gob-sir  went  pottering  off  to  his  place,  muttering 
something  about  certain  persons  thinking  themselves 
"so  darn  smart;  but  he'd  show  'em  before  the  day  was 
over." 

When  Philander  had  worked  his  way  well  down  into 
the  thicket,  he  had  not  long  to  search  for  a  lead.  Both 
Sancho  and  Mose  were  frenzied  with  excitement  in 
anticipation  of  the  chase,  and  scurried  here  and  there 
to  the  limit  of  their  chains,  with  noses  eagerly  sniffing 
the  ground.  Suddenly  they  halted,  and  both  simulta- 
neously gave  a  yelp,  and  strained  away  at  their  chains 
like  fiends.     They  had  struck  a  scent. 

*'  Hold  on,  boys;  I  don't  know  about  that  track.  Wait 
till  we  see  if  it's  as  fresh  as  you  seem  to  think  it  is." 

He  followed  the  dogs  over  the  leafy  ground  till  they 
came  to  a  bare  spot  that  permitted  an  examination  of 
the  tracks. 

"All  right,  my  boys;  I  guess  that'll  do  for  a  starter," 
and  he  unbuckled  the  collars. 

Away  they  went,  out  of  sight  in  an  instant,  and  it 
was  not  Ion  4'  before  he  heard  them  "giving  tongue  "  off 
down  in  the  swamp  in  a  rather  unexpected  locality. 
He  hurried  away  to  the  west,  thinking  the  deer  might 
circle  in  that  direction,  imd  thus  evade  the  men  on  the 
runways.  He  had  not  gone  far,  however,  when 
he  heard  the  dogs  again,  and  this  time  it  was  plain 
that  the  deer  had  headed  about  and  were  making  for 
the  main  runway,  on  which  B 'gob-sir  was  stationed. 

That  gentleman,  on  hearing  the  dogs,  had  placed 
himself  behind  a  fallen  tree  about  thirty  yards  from  the 
runway,    and   dropping  on   his  knees,   took  repeated 


THE    DEER-HUNT. 


83 


sight  across  the  tree  in  the  direction  of  the  runway, 
with  the  evident  idea  of  studying  the  proper  method  of 
shooting  the  deer  as  soon  as  it  appeared.  He  could 
hear  the  dogs  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  and  presently 
their  great  deep-toned  signals  sounded  startlingly  close 
at  hand  as  they  ascended  a  rise  of  ground  on  the  side  of 
a  ravine  which  lay  between  him  and  the  thicket.  By  the 
time  they  reached  the  summit  he  could  hear  something 
hurrying  through  the  bushes  in  advance  of  them,  and 
coming  at  a  bounding  pace  down  across  the  ravine. 

Shades  of  the  Romans!  What  ailed  his  heart  when 
that  sound  definitely  struck  his  ear?  It  was  jumping 
up  and  down  in  his  breast,  and  knocking  about  under 
his  ribs,  and  bounding  up  into  his  throat  enough  to 
choke  him.  The  nearer  the  sound  came  the  wilder  his 
heart  acted,  and  it  suddenly  developed  an  astonishing 
number  of  convolutions  that  in  all  his  experience  with 
it  he  had  never  known  it  to  possess.  And  his  hands! 
What  was  wrong  with  them?  They  were  shaking  in  a 
v/ay  which  threatened  to  send  the  gun  tumbling  to  the 
ground.  In  fact,  he  was  shivering  from  head  to  foot, 
as  if  struck  with  a  sudden  chill.  "  I  wish  the  good 
Lord  I  had  some  of  Jerry's  whis — "  Bang!  He  had 
seen  a  tawny  thing — maybe  there  were  two  of  them,  he 
was  not  sure — come  bounding  along  the  runway,  with 
nead  thrown  nobly  back  over  the  shoulder,  and  instinct- 
ively his  trembling  fingers  had  somehow  pressed  the 
trigger.  The  shock  of  the  gun  added  to  his  excite- 
ment, but  it  brought  back  the  feeling  to  his  fingers,  and 
seeing  something  else  leaping  up  the  runway,  he 
jumped  to  his  feet  and  let  fiy  the  other  barrel.  Fortu- 
nately his  aim  was  wild  enough  to  scatter  the  shot  away 
overhead  among  the  upper  branches  of  the  trees,  for 


ty"'E 


84 


THE    HERMIT    OF    TliE    NONQUON. 


lit 


!  1 


III 


the  second  object  he  shot  at  was  Sancho,  who  loUowed 
np  the  chase  without  the  slii^htest  attention  to  the 
crazy  old  sportsman  behind  the  tree.  The  next  instant 
Mose  dashed  ahjng  with  a  resoundin^uf  yelp,  and  when  it 
began  to  dawn  on  the  trembling  victim  of  "buck  fever" 
that  the  game  had  actually  gone  right  past  liim 
imharmed,  within  thirty  yards  of  his  gun,  he  scrambled 
quickly  over  the  tree  and  ran  pell-mell  np  the  runway, 
with  the  vague  idea  of  somehow  overtaking  the  deer 
and  retrieving  his  pitiable  defeat.  But  the  fast  reced- 
ing bay  of  the  hounds  in  the  distance  soon  brought  him 
to  his  senses,  and  convinced  him  that  reparation  for 
that  blunder  must  be  made  in  some  other  way,  if  indeed 
it  ever  could  be  made.  He  came  walking  slowly  back, 
and  with  a  big  sigh  sat  down  on  the  fallen  tree.  It  all 
seemed  like  a  dream  to   him. 

"  I'd  give  anvthing  to  know  if  there  icas  two  of 
*em,"  he  said  to  himself.  Then  suddenly  ])reaking 
out  as  if  to  offer  himself  some  consolation,  "  Wliy,  b'gob- 
sir,  there  isn't  a  man  in  the  hull  party  that  could  'a' 
done  any  better.  That  blamed  deer  was  jest  a — I'd  give 
my  best  pair  of  boots  to  know  if  there  7i'(rs  two — was 
jest  a  flyin'.  The  dogs  had  it  about  scared  to  death, 
and  a  feller  can't  be  expected  to  sh(30t  anything  when 
it's  a  climbin'  for  kingdom  come  at  that  rate."  And 
then,  failing  to  recognize  the  contradiction  in  his  next 
remark,  he  shook  his  head  and  vowed,  "If  I  git  another 
chance  like  that  I'll  show  'em.  I'll  blow  the  everlastin' 
liver  an'  lights  right  out  of  the  next  deer  that  tries  to 
run  past  me." 

He  reloaded  with  animation,  and  t'  "^n  sat  looking 
with  more  of  a  subdued  air  up  into  the  top  branches  ot 
the  tall  trees  around  him.  vSuddcnly  he  heard  the 
report  of  a  gun  off  in  Jerry's  direction.     "  Bet  my  life 


iiy, 


THE    J)FER-HUNT. 


85 


he   missed   it,"    he   chuckled.     "  Don't   know,    though. 
I'm  afraid  Jerry's  a  pretty  good  shot." 

It  grew  tiresome  sitting  there  watching  the  runway, 
and  he  finally  wandered  off  farther  down  into  the 
woods,  and  groped  around  to  see  if  he  could  find  some 
other  kind  of  game  to  shoot. 

**  There  ain't  any  deer  around  here  to  amount  to  any- 
thing, anyhow,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "And  there 
don't  seem  to  be  a  blamed  thing  else  to  shoot,  either. 
I  don't  see  what  Philander  wanted  to  bring  us  into  such 
a  place  a.-,  this  for,  unless  it's  to  make  fools  of  us." 

It  must  have  been  about  the  middle  of  the  forenoon, 
when,  after  tramping  around  for  a  long  time,  he  came 
to  a  space  more  open  than  usual,  and  stood  looking  at 
the  tall  trees  with  the  vain  hope  of  seeing  something 
in  their  branches  worthy  of  a  shot.  It  was  a  quiet, 
leafy  spot,  with  the  hush  of  an  autumn  day  upon  it. 
The  air  was  still,  and  the  subdued  sounds  of  nature 
showed  her  in  a  mood  of  mellowest  harmony.  A 
detached  leaf  here  and  there  gently  floated  to  the 
ground,  and  a  broken  twig  or  bit  of  bark  snapped 
lightly,  and  tumbled  end  over  end  with  more  rapid 
flight.  The  trees  sighed  softly,  as  if  in  contentment 
with  the  fullness  of  the  season,  and  the  sun,  peeping  in 
among  the  branches,  showed  the  beech-nuts  just  burst- 
ing from  their  rough  and  burry  shells. 

The  hostler  was  not  i^oet  enough  to  be  visibly  im- 
pressed with  all  of  these  beauties,  and  was  just  turning 
away  disgusted  with  the  idea  that  he  could  see  no 
squirrels  or  partridge,  when  suddenly  he  stood  face  to 
face  with  three  pairs  of  great  soft-brown  eyes  that 
looked  wonderingly  at  him  from  a  slight  knoll  not  fifty 
yards  away.     He  had  not  heard  a  sound,  and  the  sud- 


II  i  I 


86 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


P 


!i 


den  appearance  of  the  deer — an  old  buck,  a  doe,  and 
their  fawn — so  surprised  him  that  he  stood  staring  at 
them  with  his  wits  gone  a-begging.  It  was  only  for  an 
instant;  the  deer  suddenly  swerved  and  bounded  out 
of  sight  behind  the  knoll.  Then  B'gob-sir  exhibited 
some  vigorous  movements.  He  gripped  his  gun 
tighter  and  broke  into  a  lumbering  pace  up  the  side  of 
the  knoll.  He  cocked  his  gun  as  he  ran,  fully  expect- 
ing the  deer  would  halt  within  shot  and  stand  staring 
at  him  again.  That  was  all  he  knew  about  the  habits 
of  deer.  "Not  a  hide  nor  hair  of  the  blamed  critters 
anywheres  to  be  seen,"  he  ejaculated,  as  he  stood 
breathless  on  the  summit.  "  If  I  had  only  been  ex- 
pectin'  'em."  He  dashed  pell-mell  down  the  other  side 
of  the  knoll,  in  the  direction  the  deer  had  gone,  and 
began  searching  here  and  there  behind  every  clump 
of  bushes.  Possibly  the  brave  sportsman  had  a  vague 
idea  that  the  deer  had  taken  it  into  their  heads  to  lie 
down  and  rest.  As  he  was  pottering  about  he  was 
suddenly  startled  by  a  terrific  explosion,  and  the  gun, 
jumping  from  his  nerveless  hand,  fell  to  the  ground. 
'*  What  in  the  name  o'  cats  could  have  made  that 
c-c-cussed  gun  go  off? "  he  exclaimed,  enraged  at  the 
fright  he  had  received.  He  picked  it  up,  looked  at  it 
curiously  a  moment,  and  then  muttered,  '*  Humph!  I 
guess  I  must  have  forgot  to  uncock  it.  Geewhitaker, 
how  it  kicked!  " 

Of  course  all  hopes  of  finding  the  deer  vanished  with 
the  report  of  the  gun,  and  he  concluded  to  go  over 
where  Jerry  was  and  see  what  luck  he  was  having. 
*'  And  mebbe  he  has  another  flask,"  added  the  unfortu- 
nate sportsman,  who  certainly  needed  something  in  the 
form  of  a  solace. 

So  he  started  out.  and — eot  lost. 


X. 


THE   HUNT   CONTINUED. 


'T^HE  other  men  were  having'  var3'ing  success.  Bona- 
-'■  venture  had  committed  the  cardinal  sin  of  the 
sportsman,  and  was  just  now  suffering-  the  penalty  of 
remorse.  He  had  left  the  runway  iniguarded  for  a 
short  time,  with  the  idea  of  getting  a  "  still-hunt  "  shot, 
and  in  his  absence  a  deer  had  crossed  the  creek  at  the 
exact  spot  where  Philander  had  sent  him. 

Philander,  after  a  sufficient  reconnoiter  to  convince 
him  of  the  uselessness  of  remaining  where  he  was, 
struck  out  across  the  marsh  in  Bonaventure's  direction. 
He  found  that  gentleman  berating  himself  in  good 
French  fashion  : 

"Look  here!  Look  at  this.  Philander,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  fresh  tracks  of  the  deer  as  it  had  gone 
down  into  the  creek.  "  And  look  over  there,"  signify- 
ing the  spot  where  the  deer  had  clambered  out  of  the 
water  on  the  other  side,  leaving  plenty  of  evidence 
with  its  dripping  hide.  "All  my  fault;  all  my  fault! 
I  went  away,  Philander.  I  went  away,  like  the  great 
fool  I  am,  and  you  see  what  comes  of  it." 

He  shook  his  big  curly  head  in  anger  at  himself. 

"  Never  mind,  Bonaventure;  you're  not  the  first  one 
that's  missed  a  good  shot  in  that  way."  Then,  search- 
ing carefully  along  the  runway,  he  continued:  "There 
was  only  one  dog  after  that  deer.  I  wonder  what  has 
become  of  the  other  one.     This  is  Sancho's  track,  and 

:  (87)  -  ^  


h 

k>  'i  II 
i 


r   1 


I 


S8 


THK    MERMir    OF     I' H  F'.    NONQUON, 


T  wish  Mose  had  stayed  with  liim,  for  Mose  is  a  young 
dog  and  hasn't  always  the  best  judgment.  lie's  phieky, 
tliough — the  pluekiest  pup  I  ever  saw.  He'd  go  right 
into  a  burnin'  brush-heap  after  his  game  any  day, 

"  Yes,  he's  more  faithful  than  I  am,"  grumbled  Bona- 
venture,  looking  ruefully  at  the  deer-traeks.  He  eould 
not  forgive  himself. 

"  Oh  pshaw,  Bonaventurc,  that's  all  right.  I  missed 
a  deer  onee  myself  in  that  very —  Hark!  That  deer 
has  doubled,  I  believe.  I  hear  the  dog.  He's  coming 
this  way,  sure.     You  may  get  a  shot  yet." 

"  If  I  do,  I  don't  deserve  it." 

"Well,  keep  cool;  and  we'll  see."  ' 

Sure  enough,  the  deer  was  coming  back,  and  evidently 
on  the  same  runway. 

"  You  slip  across  the  creek  on  that  fallen  log, 
Bonavcnture,  and  git  a  pop  at  him  as  he  comes  down  to 
the  water.  I'll  stay  on  this  side  and  let  him  have  it  in 
case  you  miss  him." 

Bonavcnture  was  determined  the  deer  should  not  get 
past  him  alive  —  he  wanted  to  retrieve  his  lost  reputa- 
tion; and  as  the  deer,  a  lusty  buck,  was  just  springing 
over  a  log  a  few  feet  from  the  water,  he  fired  both  bar- 
rels in  quick  succ  ssion.  Over  the  log  the  buck  went 
like  a  flash,  carried  by  the  impetus  of  his  flight;  but  on 
reai:hing  the  ground  he  collapsed  and  tumbled  heels 
over  head. 

"  That's  a  good  shot,"  called  out  Philander. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Bonavcnture,  at  last  appeased. 
"  Guess  I'll  cut  his  throat.' 

"  Look  out  he  doesn't  turn  on  you  and  strike  you  with 
his  fore  feet.  He  hasn't  quite  give  up  yet.  Go  roimd 
behind  him — and  then  look  out  for  his  horns.     A  dyin' 


Til   •     IH'N'I'    ( ONIINIIKI). 


S!) 


buck  is  a  dan<;crc)iis  tliino'  to  fool  \vitli.  Cut  (|iiick  and 
jump  away.  Hello,  Sanclio,  old  fellow!  Here  you  arc. 
Good  boy."  And  he  was  insi  mtly  fondlin^j;-  and  petting 
the  dog,  and  talking  to  him  as  if  he  were  human.  Who 
will  contend  that  the  dog  did  not  fully  understand  all  he 
said?  There  is  a  subtle  sympathy  between  hunter  and 
hound  that  might  well  read  humanity  many  a  lesson. 

Barlow  Dreeme  was  having  a  rather  unique  experi- 
ence that  afternoon,  which  we  will  alhjw  him  to  relate 
in  his  own  words  in  due  time.  His  friends  were  sur- 
prised to  see  him  come  into  cam]j  toward  evening  with 
nothing  to  show  for  his  day's  shooting,  for  Barlow  was 
considered  a  good  shot.  He  did  not  come  alone,  l)e  it 
said.  Immediately  behind  him  labored  the  "buck 
fever  "  patient,  with  a  strangely  unsettled,  unsatisfied, 
unnatural  air  about  him,  and  a  reserve  which  indicated 
that  his  brain  was  working  on  some  unusual  problem  of 
recent  date. 

As  Barlow  and  B'gob-sir  approached  the  wagon,  they 
saw  the  deer  in  it. 

"  Hello!  "  said  Barlow,  "  who  shot  them?  " 

"Bonaventurc  shot  the  buck  and  Jerry  the  doe,"  said 
Philander. 

As  the  men  were  filling  their  pipes  preparatory  to 
starting  home,  Bonaventure  related  his  experience  with 
the  buck — not  forgetting  to  censure  himself  once  more 
for  leaving  the  runway. 

"And  where  did  you  shoot  yours?"  asked  Barlow  of 
Jerry. 

"  Over  in  there,  between  the  third  and  fourth  conces- 
sions," said  Jerry.  "The  dogs  hadn't  been  out  more'n 
half  an  hour  \.hen  I  heard  a  couple  of  shots  down  in 
B'gob-sir's  direction  "  [here  the  gentleman  in  question 


I 

J.  i! 


90 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


H 


III 


shifted  uneasily  to  the  far  side  of  the  wagon,  and  stood 
his  gun  against  the  side-board,  looking  away  in  a  con- 
strained manner  at  something  far  off  in  the  woods], 
"and  I  supposed  all  the  game  would  be  shot  before  it 
had  a  chance  to  reach  me.  But  presently  a  couple  of 
deer  came  along — "  ("  Then  there  'luas  two  of  'em,  after 
all,"  muttered  B'gol)-sir  to  himself)  — "and  I  managed 
to  keel  this  one  over.  Mose  stopped  running  when  the 
doe  fell,  but  Sancho  kept  on  after  the  buck.  I  started 
for  the  wagon  with  the  doe,  and  thought  I'd  bring  Mose 
with  me  and  tie  him  up  the  rest  of  the  day,  for  ym 
can't  tell  what  a  pup  will  do  if  he  gets  to  running  alone. 
But  he  give  me  the  slip  somehow,  and  the  last  I  heard 
of  him  he  was  givin'  tongue  away  off  east,  and  by  the 
sound  of  things  I  guess  the  deer  had  started  for  Era- 
ser's Creek." 

"  Yes,"  said  Barlow,  somewhat  indifferently.  "  I  was 
over  there.  They  crossed  the  creek,  and  headed  away 
northeast  toward  the  cedar  swamps.  Mose  will  chase 
that  deer  till  either  one  or  the  other  drops." 

The  men  showed  their  surprise  at  this  information  by 
asking  almost  in  chorus: 

"  How  was  it  you  didn  t  get  a  shot  at  the  deer  if  you 
were  over  there." 

"  Had  something  else  on  hand,"  was  the  laconic 
reply,  given  in  a  tone  that  admitted  of  no  further 
questioning. 

"  Say,  Prosper,"  remarked  Jerry,  turning  to  the  owner 
of  Mose — who,  by  the  way,  had  bagged  some  fine  par- 
tridge during  the  day — "  ten  to  one  your  dog  is  lost. 
What'll  you  take  for  your  chances  on  him? " 

"  What'll  you  give? " 

"  Ten  dollars," 


THE    HUNT    CONTINUED. 


91 


**  He  might  come  back,  and  if  he  does  he's  worth 
more  than  that." 

**  He  might  not  come  back,  and  if  he  doesn't  he 
isn't  worth  anything." 

"Tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  Prosper,  after  a  pause. 
"You  give  me  $20,  and  if  Mose  comes  back  he's 
your  dog.  If  he  doesn't  come  back,  I'll  make  it  right 
with  you  by  givin'  you  ten  dollars'  worth  of  goods 
out  of  the  store." 

Jerry  knew  too  well  the  probable  price  of  Prosper's 
goods  in  a  deal  of  that  kind,  and  declined  the  offer. 


n 


il 


XI. 

A    HORSE-TRADE. 

A  S  the  hunters  were  drivini^hoine  in  the  dusk  of  the 
'^*'  evening,  they  met  a  couple  of  farmers  return- 
inji;-  from  Port  Rowcn,  after  hauling-  a  load  of  grain  to 
market.  They  had  paid  their  respects  to  the  various 
taverns  alontj;'  the  road,  till  they  were  in  that  condition 
in  which  the  plebeian  considers  himself  a  kini^.  There 
was  nothiui^-  they  dare  not  do,  these  erstwhile  quiet 
plodders  after  the  plow.  ^Vs  they  were  approaching- 
the  huntini4--party,  one  was  seen  to  slap  the  other 
familiarly  on  the  back,  and  then  both  laut^hed  uproar- 
iously. When  they  were  alongside,  they  pulled  up 
their  team,  and  exclaimed: 

"  Hovv'll  you  trade  horses?  " 

Prosper,  who  was  driving,  stopped  his  horses  with 
apparent  reluctance. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know's  we  want  to  trade,"  he  said.  At 
the  same  time  he  glanced  quickly  at  the  other  team, 
and  remembered  having  seen  the  horses  many  times 
before.  He  knew  what  they  were  worth  without 
examining  them  closely. 

"Which  of  you  owns  this  team?"  asked  one  of  the 
farmers,  who  had  already  jumped  out  of  the  wagon 
and  was  looking  at  the  horses. 

"  I  own  the  off  horse,  and  this  man  " — pointing  to 
Bonaventure — "owns  the  nigh  one.  You'd  best  stump 
him  for  a  trade." 

(93) 


( 'i 


A    HORSE-TRADK. 


o;} 


Prospcr's  horse  was  by  far  the  hetter-hjokiiij;-  animal, 
and  besides,  he  seemed  a  likely  mate  for  the  off  horse 
in  the  other  wa^on. 

"  No,"  s;iid  the  farmer,  "  I  don't  want  his  horse. 
What  kind  of  a  dicker  will  you  s^-ivc  me  for  that  nii^h 
one  of  mine? " 

"I  don't  care  to  trade  my  horse  off  just  now,"  said 
Prosper,  with  apparent  unconcern.  "He  doesn't  look 
very  well,  and  I  don't  want  to  trade  him  on  that 
account." 

"  How  old  is  he? "  asked  the  farmer,  viewini;-  the 
horse  with  incrcasin<^  admiration. 

"  He's  seven  years  old  last  sprin*;." 

"  vSeventeen,  you  mean,"  said  the  other  in  a  bluffing" 
way,  in.spired  by  whisky,  and  a  horse-trade. 

"If  you  can't  believe  what  I  tell  you,  we'd  best  ([uit 
right  liere,"  and  Prosper  made  a  preten.se  of  starting 
up  his  team. 

"  Hold  on,  now,"  said  the  farmer,  stopping  him. 
"Don't  git  your  l)ack  up  so  quick.  A  man  can  say 
what  he  likes  in  a  hor.se-deal,  can't  he?  Come,  now, 
how'll  you  trade'. 

"T  tell  you  my  horse  doesn't  look  well,  and  T  don't 
want  to  trade.  If  he  looked  all  right,  I  wouldn't  mind 
talkin'  with  you." 

"Nevermind  the  looks;  I  don't  care  anything  about 
that.     I'll  give  you  an  even  dicker  for  that  nigh  hor.se." 

"Oh  no  you  don't,"  said  Prosper,  with  a  great  deal  (^f 
self-assurance.  "  I  didn't  suppose  there  was  any  use 
talkin'  trade  to  you  when  you  first  stumped  me." 

"Well,  I'll  give  you  $5  to  boot." 

"You  want  me  to  make  you  a  present  of  this  horse, 
don't  you? " 


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THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


"  Well,  how  much  boot  do  you  want?  " 

"  How  much'U  you  give?  " 

"  I'll  give  you  $io,  and  not  a  cent  more." 

"  Then  you  can't  trade  horses  with  me,"  and  he  once 
more  gathered  up  the  lines  as  if  to  start. 

"  Hold  on  here,"  said  the  farmer,  growing  more 
anxious  for  the  horse  all  the  while.  "  Why  don't  you 
say  how  much  you'll  take?  " 

"  Twenty  dollars." 

**  I  won't  give  it." 

**  All  right;  no  harm  done.  I  knew  all  along  you 
hadn't  $20  to  your  name.  You're  a  likely  horse-trader, 
you  are." 

The  hunter's  wagon  slowly  began  to  rumble  away. 
The  farmer's  blood  was  up — mixed  somewhat  with  bad 
whisky.  Prosper's  horse  looked  better  to  him  the  far- 
ther away  he  got.  His  own  seemed  stunted  and  under- 
grown  to  his  bleary  eyes.  And  then  that  bluff  about 
the  money.  He  had  sold  a  load  of  grain  that  day,  and 
had  a  great  deal  more  than  $20  in  his  pocket. 

"  Hold  on,"  he  cried,  in  defiance.  "  I  can  buy  your 
whole  outfit." 

"  If  you're  sare  you've  got  $20  with  you,  I'll  trade 
horses,"  said  Prosper,  coolly. 

"  Unhitch  your  team,  then.  Wait  a  minute.  Maybe 
that  horse  won't  go  on  the  nigh  side." 

"  He'll  go  on  one  side  as  well  as  the  other,"  Prosper 
assured  him.  *'  It  doesn't  make  a  bit  of  difference  to 
him  which  way  he  goes." 

By  the  time  the  exchange  was  made  it  was  dark;  and 
the  hunters  drove  on  toward  home  with  little  remark. 
Two  members  of  the  party  especially  were  quiet,  and 
apparently  absorbed  in  their  own  reflections.     Barlow 


A    HORSE-TRADE. 


95 


and  old  B'gob-sir  had  neither  one  acted  naturally  since 
they  came  to  camp  together. 

Presently  Philander  remarked:  '*  What's  the  matter 
with  you  two  fellers  to-night?  I  never  seen  B'gob-sir 
still  so  long  before,  and  as  for  Barlow,  why,  he  ain't  a 
bit  like  himself.     What  ails  you.  Barlow? " 

Barlow  shook  himself  out  of  his  meditation,  and 
removing  his  pipe  from  between  his  teeth — it  had  long 
since  gone  out — he  knocked  the  ashes  on  the  side-board 
of  the  wagon,  and  spitting  out  into  the  ditch,  began: 

"Well,  I  didn't  intend  to  say  anything  about  it,  but  I've 
had  a  mighty  bad  shaking-up  to-day.  1  come  across 
something  over  a  little  to  the  west  of  Eraser's  Creek 
that  makes  my  hair  almost  stand  to  think  about  it." 

Philander  and  Bonavenlure  were  instantly  on  the 
alert,  and  as  for  B'gob-sir,  he  began  to  stare  at  Barlow 
with  a  quizzical,  peculiar  expression  on  his  face. 

"  I  struck  out  this  morning  over  that  way,"  Barlow 
continued,  "  expecting  that  if  a  deer  got  past  you  fel- 
lows I'd  get  a  shot  at  him  as  he  made  for  the  creek. 
After  tramping  around  for  a  long  time,  I  heard  Mose 
giving  tongue  away  to  the  northwest,  and  I  started 
north  as  hard  as  I  could  run,  to  try  to  head  them  off 
before  they  reached  the  creek.  I  was  tearing  along 
through  the  bushes  at  a  great  rate,  when  all  at  once  I 
came  upon  something  that  nearly  scared  the  wits  out 
of  me." 

*'  What  was  it  like? "  asked  Prosper,  whose  contempla- 
tion of  his  n2w  horse  had  prevented  him  from  being 
greatly  interested  till  now. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you'll  all  laugh  at  me,  but  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  just  what  I  saw,  as  nearly  as  I  can."  And 
then  he  repeated  the   description  that   Philander  had 


96 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


"  1 


given  of  the  wild  man  that  night  in  front  of  Bonavent- 
iire's  cabin.  Philander  and  Bonavcntiire  exchanged 
occasional  glances  as  well  as  the  darkness  would  per- 
mit, and  B'gob-sir  appeared  strangely  agitated  and 
nervous. 

"At  first,"  said  Barlow,"  I  was  positive  it  was  some 
kind  of  a  queer  animal — " 

"  Of  course  it  was  an  animal,''  broke  in  B'gob-sir,  no 
longer  able  to  contain  himself.  The  men  all  looked  at 
him,  and  asked  in  a  chorus: 

"  How  do  you  know?     Did  you  see  it?" 

'■''Sec  it!  Should  think  I  did,"  exclaimed  the  excited 
old  fellow.  "It  chased  me  across  fourteen  townships! 
See  iti  Why,  God-:i-mighty,  it  was  the  most  turriblest 
lookin'  thing  a  man  ever  sjt  eyes  on!  You  don't  ketch 
me  over  in  that  neck  o'  the  woods  again,  let  me  tell 
you." 

There  Avere  two  men  in  the  wagon  who  could  not 
resist  a  laugh,  though  the  laugh  in  each  case  ^^■as 
impelled  b}^  a  different  reflection.  Philander  remem- 
bered the  old  felknv's  braggadocio  that  night  at  Bona- 
venture's,  and  Barhjw  called  to  mind  the  circumstance 
of  his  meeting  with  B'gob-sir  that  afternoon. 

"  I  thought  you  was  goin'  over  to  ferret  this  thing 
out  for  me,"  said  Philander. 

B'gob-sir  remained  dumb. 

"  So  you  think  it  was  an  animal? "  observed  Barlow. 
"Well,  I  don't  agree  with  you.  I  just  caught  a  glimpse 
of  it  at  first,  and  it  certainly  looked  like  one,  but  I  fol- 
lowed it  lip,  and  saw  it  several  times  after  that,  and  an 
animal  doesn't  run  on  two  feet  the  way  it  did.  I  was 
bound  to  see  all  I  could  of  it,  and  instead  of  it  chasing 
me  " —  here  he  looked  rather  comically  at  the  hostler  — 


A    HORSE-TRADE. 


97 


*  I  chased  it.  I  tramped  around  that  woods  nearly 
half  the  day,  trying  to  get  eloser  to  it,  but  I  finally  lost 
track  of  it,  and  had  to  give  it  up.  I'm  positive,  though, 
that  it's  a  human  being  of  some  sort." 

"  How  did  you  two  men  come  to  meet  each  other  this 
afternoon?"  asked  Jerry,  who  had  been  trying  to  put 
this  and  that  together. 

"  I'll  let  B'gob-sir  tell  that,"  said  Barlow,  who  was 
instantly  on  the  point  of  a  laugh. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  fellow,  ''after  I  shot  at  the  deer 
this  morning — say,  that  gun  you  borrered  for  me  isn't 
worth  the  powder  to  blow  it  up;  you  couldn't  strike  the 
side  of  a  straw-stack  with  it  if  you  stood  two  feet  away 
and  shoved  the  muzzle  right  into  the  straw.  It  jest 
simply  lost  us  two  or  three  deer  to-day,  and  I  don't 
want  you  fellers  ever  to  play  such  a  trick  on  me 
again." 

"  You  had  your  pick  of  the  guns,"  interposed  Philan- 
der, "and  that  was  the  only  one  you  would  take. 
Bonaventure  shot  the  buck  with  the  gun  you  said  was 
no  good." 

"That's  all  right,  now;  I  didn't  start  out  to  talk  pc- 
ticularly  about  guns,  and  if  I'm  goin'  to  tell  this  story, 
I  wish  you'd  let  me  alone.  Well,  after  the  deer  passed 
me — now  I  jest  want  to  say  right  here  that  there  isn't  a 
man  in  the  hull  party  that  could  'a'  shot  them  deer  the 
way  they  was  goin'.  They'd  got  kinder  tired  out  by 
the  '.ime  they'd  run  as  fur  as  Jerry,  and  that  give  him 
some  kind  of  a  show,  but  when  they  passed  me  they 
was  jest  simply  flyin'.  I  shot  straight  enough,  there 
wasn't  any  doubt  about  that,  for  I  went  over  and  seen 
where  the  shot  struck  a  beech-tree,  and  it  was  jest 
about  the  right  height   for  a  deer;    but  the  animal  was 


m 


9a 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


runnin'  so  fast  the  shot  hadn't  time  to  travel  that  dis- 
tance before  it  was  out  of  the  way.  I  can  tell  you, 
though/'  he  added,  boastfully,  "  that  if  the  deer  had 
got  that  load  of  buck-snot  in  his  carcass  he'd  never 
jumped  another  jump.  It  was  a  terror  the  way  that 
tree  was  chawed  up." 

"  I  thought  you  said  the  gun  was  no  good,"  said 
Philander. 

B 'gob-sir  stared  at  the  speaker,  and  relapsed  into  a 
moody  silence. 

"  Go  on  with  your  story,"  said  Barlow. 

"  Well,  after  that,"  he  finally  continued,  "  I  went  off 
down  in  the  woods  to  see  if  I  coula  git  some  kind  of  a 
decent  shot,  and  I — well,  there's  no  use  in  me  takin' 
time  to  tell  you  where  all  I  went,  but — " 

"  Do  you  know  yourself? "  asked  Jerry. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  hostler. 

"There!  that  settles  it,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  ain't 
goin'  to  say  another  word.  That  settles  it.  If  a  man 
can't  tell  a  story  without  bein'  interrupted  every  second 
word,  it's  about  time  to  quit  talkin'." 

"Oh,  never  mind  Philander  and  Jerry,"  said  Barlow, 
who  had  good  reasons  of  his  own  for  wishing  to  see 
how  the  old  fellow's  story  would  terminate.  "  Never 
mind  what  they  say.    Tell  us  the  rest  of  it." 

"Well,  they've  got  to  keep  quiet,  that's  all,"  he 
answei'ed,  with  a  shake  of  his  head.  Being  assured 
that  they  would,  he  continued: 

"  I'd  been  trampin'  round  quite  a  spell  and  got  tired, 
and  after  awhile  I  come  near  the  edge  of  the  clearin' 
and  thought  I'd  set  down  on  a  log  to  rest.  I  hadn't 
been  settin'  there  long  when  I  heard  something  down 
in  the  bushes,  and  thinks  I  *  that's  a  deer,  and  I'll  give 


A    HORSE-TRADE. 


91) 


my  gentleman  a  dose  of  lead.'  I  set  there  quiet  with 
my  g-un  on  my  knee,  watchin'  the  direction  of  the  noise, 
and  all  at  once  this — this — this  thing  that  Barlow  tells 
you  about  come  slashin'  through  the  bushes  right 
toward  m*^,  I  kinder  moved  on  out  into  the  elearin', 
so  as  to  git  a  better  look  at  it,  for  I  couldn't  make  out 
what  it  was  through  the  bushes,  and  jest  as  I'd  nicely 
got  out  into  the  open  space  Barlow  come  along,  and  we 
started  home." 

The  rather  tame  ending  of  B'gob-sir's  story,  and  the 
uncertain  inflection  of  voice,  gave  rise  to  some  suspicion 
as  to  its  accuracy.  Barlow,  especially,  was  much 
amused,  and  could  not  resist  a  question  or  two. 

"  How  did  you  come  to  throw  away  your  gun  and 
start  to  streak  it  across  the  field  so  fast?  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  me  you'd  have  left  your  gun  there  yet." 

•'  Well,  now,  I'll  tell  you  the  facts  about  the  gun," 
said  the  old  fellow,  once  more  in  trouble,  but  still 
undaunted.  "  I  jest  thought,  as  you  said  a  few  minutes 
ago,  that  the  thing  might  be  human,  and  I  was  so 
tempted  to  shoot  it  that  I  thought  the  only  safe  way 
was  to  throw  away  my  gun,  A  feller  never  knows 
what  foolish  things  he  may  do  if  he  has  a  gun  in  his 
hand." 

"  Yes,  but  what  about  the  two  bears?  You  said  5^ou 
had  just  been  chased  out  of  the  woods  by  a  couple  of 
bears." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right  about  the  bears.  I  had  to  tell 
you  something,  and  I  was  bound  you  shouldn't  go  down 
in  there  and  git  a  glimpse  of  that — that  thing  if  I  could 
help  it.  I  knew  jest  how  it  would  frighten  you;  and 
then  it  was  time  we  was  startin'  for  camp," 

Barlow  spared  him  the  recital  of  the  true  state  of 


100 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


affairs  when  he  found  him.  The  truth  was  that  on  his 
way  to  the  camp  he  was  attracted  by  a  series  of  the 
most  unearthly  yells  that  ever  came  from  human  throat, 
and  emerg-inj4"  into  the  small  clearing  he  saw  our  vera- 
cious friend  running'  at  top  speed,  without  hat  or  gun, 
and  with  hair  aloft  and  eyes  protruding,  cmittiug  the 
while  a  plaintive  wailing,  half  yell,  half  cry.  He  was 
in  a  state  of  terror  bordering  on  collapse,  and  Barlow 
had  some  difficulty  in  quieting  him.  It  was  only  after 
they  were  within  sight  of  the  wagon  that  he  left  off 
turning  around  and  looking  back  every  few  steps. 

After  all  there  can  be  little  wonder  that  he  was 
frightened,  for  he  had  been  much  imnerved.  by  being 
lost  in  the  woods,  and  had  wandered  off  in  that  direction 
without  the  slightest  idea  where  he  was,  till  rescued  by 
Barlow  after  his  fright. 

As  the  hunters'  wagon  rumbled  slowly  over  the  brow 
of  a  hill,  an  occasional  feeble  light  here  and  there  llick- 
ering  from  a  candle  showed  them  that  they  were  near 
the  Nonquon  village,  and  the  only  remark  of  note  was 
made  by  Bonaventurc,  who  stated  that  without  delay  a 
party  must  be  organized  to  go  over  in  that  region  and 
learn  somethinii-  more  definite  about  the  wild  man. 


XII. 

THE   SEQUEL   TO  A   HORSE-TRADE. 

"DEFORE  noon  the  foUowin^^  day  two  events  occurred 
at  the  Nonquon   as  the  direct  result  of  the  hunt 
and  the  horse-trade. 

Philander  was  walking  aimlessly  along-  the  village 
street,  with  his  hands  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets  and 
his  pipe  at  a  convenient  angle  between  his  teeth,  when 
suddenly  he  stopped,  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
looking  intently  up  the  road  broke  into  a  delighted 
exclamation  at  something  he  saw  coming  toward  the 
village. 

"  Well,  by  gracious!  if  there  ain't  Mose,  sure'spreachin'. 
That  dog  is  worth  a  farm  this  minute.  Here,  old  fel- 
low, come  over  here."  he  shouted,  as  the  hound  came 
loping  toward  him,  with  tongue  hanging  out  and  a 
generally  tired  air,  as  if  he  had  gone  a  long  chase. 
Mose  jumped  across  the  ditch  in  answer  to  the  call,  and 
Philander,  in  his  exuberance,  caught  him  up  and  carried 
him  in  his  arms  to  the  store  door,  where  he  called  out 
to  Prosper: 

"  Here  you  are.  Here's  Mose  safe  and  sound.  You 
ought  to  be  proud  of  that  dog,  for  he's  made  of  the 
best  kind  o'  stuff  ever  was  put  in  a  pup.  And  you  can 
thank  your  lucky  stars  that  it  was  an  honest  man  who 
shot  the  deer  in  front  of  him,  too,  or  you'd  never  seen 
your  dog  again." 

(101) 


102 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


"  That's  so,"  said  Prosper.  "  If  it  had  been  most  men 
they'd  have  kept  both  dog  and  deer." 

*'  Well,  you  ean  afford  to  let  them  have  the  deer, 
since  they've  sent  Mose  home." 

**  Yes,  the  deer  wouldn't  amount  to  much  anyhow 
after  running-  so  many  hours.  Guess  Jerry  '11  wish  he'd 
taken  my  offer  when  he  sees  Mose  is  back.  I  '^an  tell 
you  that  no  man  is  goin'  to  lose  much  by  takin'  up  any 
offer  I  make  him." 

This  was  said  with  a  Sunday-school  air,  which  not 
only  grated  on  Philander's  ear,  but  which  was  belied 
the  next  moment  by  the  appearance  of  the  farmer  with 
whom  the  store-keeper  had  traded  horses  the  previous 
evening.  He  drove  up  in  front  of  the  store  with  the 
horse  he  had  got  from  Prosper,  and  jumping  out  of  his 
wagon,  asked  in  an  aggressive  tone: 

"Where's  that  horse  of  mine?" 

"It  looks  as  if  you  had  him  hooked  up  there  in  that 
wagon,"  coolly  answered  Prosper. 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean.     I  want  the  horse  you 
beat  me  out  of  last  night." 
.     "  Beat  you  out  of?  " 

"  Yes,  beat  me  out  of — that's  plain  enough,  isn't  it? " 

"  Not  quite  plain  enough  for  me.  I  don't  know  what 
you're  drivin*  at." 

"  Don't,  hey?  You're  mighty  blind  all  at  once;  but 
you  ain't  quite  so  blamed  blind  as  that  old  plug  of  a 
horse  you  sneaked  off  onto  me.  Go  and  look  at  his 
eyes,  and  see  what  you  have  to  say  for  yourself." 

"  Oh,  I've  seen  'em  before,"  carelessly  remarked  the 
store-keeper. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  goin'  to  do  about  it? " 

"Nothin'." 


THE    SEQUEL    TO    A    HORSE-TRADE. 


103 


**  Nothin'!  Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  g'oin*  to  cheat 
a  man  out  of  his  horse  by  such  a  low-down  lyin'  trick 
as  that? " 

**  Now  I  don't  know  what  you're  drivin'  at.  I  hain't 
done  no  lyin'  nor  cheatin'  that  I  know  oi." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  didn't  know  that 
horsf   was  blind?" 

"  Why  of  course  I  knew  he  was  blind." 

**  Then  what  did  you  trade  him  to  me  for? " 

"  Because  you  wanted  him." 

**  Well,  but  I  didn't  want  him  if  he  was  blind." 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  that." 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  he  was  blind.     A  man  that'll — " 

"  Hold  on  there;  hold  on  jest  a  minute.  Don't  be  too 
sure  about  that.  You  couldn't  'a'  been  payin'  close 
attention  to  what  I  was  sayin'  last  night.  Don't  be  too 
certain  I  didn't  tell  you." 

"Tell  me!  You  never  said  a  word  about  him  being 
blind  from  the  bei^inning  of  the  deal  to  the  end.  I 
guess  I  know  what — " 

"Hold  on,  now;  keep  cool  jest  a  little  spell,  till  you've 
had  time  to  think.  Mebbc  I  didn't  exactly  mention  the 
word  blind;  ain't  quite  sure  that  I  did,  now  I  come  to 
think  about  it,  but  I  put  the  thing  in  such  a  shape  that 
a  man  with  his  wits  about  him  might  have  known 
what  was  meant.  I  didn't  suppose  you  was  anybody's 
fool.  I  told  5'ou  two  or  three  times  that  the  horse 
didn't  look  well,  and  that  I  didn't  care  to  trade  him  on 
that  account.  I  tried  to  git  you  to  trade  for  the  other 
horse,  but  you  wouldn't  have  it.  You  said  yoii  didn't 
care  how  my  horse  looked.  I  jest  simply  give  you 
your  own  way,  and  now  you  ain't  satisfied." 

The  man  saw  the  trap  into  which  he  had  fallen,  and 


104 


THK  nKu.Mir  of    iiik  nonuuon. 


inwardly  cursed  two  thinj^s — the  individual  who  had 
duped  liim  and  the  whisky  which  had  rendered  him 
susceptible  of  bein^  duped.  Prosper,  it  is  probable, 
had  been  the  object  of  similar  imprecations  on  like 
occasions  before,  and  it  is  •  rely  a  matter  of  hist(jry 
that  this  is  not  the  first  instance  where  whisky  has  been 
held  as  an  accomplice  when  arraigned  in  the  court  of 
sober  reflection  at  its  session  of  "  the  next  morning." 

"Well,  that's  what  I  call  worse  than  lyin',"  bitterly 
observed  the  farmer.  "  Any  decent  man  will  have  a 
little  respect  for  what  he  says,  even  in  a  horse-trade." 

"Oh,  you've  chaiijj^ed  your  mind  since  last  niyht. 
That  wasn't  what  you  said  then.  I  remember  you  told 
me  that  '  a  man  can  say  what  he  likes  in  a  horse-deal, 
can't  he?'  Simply  takin'  you  at  your  own  word,  don't 
you  see?     And  yet,  as  I  said  before,  you  ain't  satisfied." 

"  No,  I  ain't  satisfied.  I  want  to  know  how  you'll 
trade  back.  I  can't  do  anything"  with  that  old  blind-eye 
out  there." 

"Well,  if  you  can't  do  anything  with  him,  what  do 
yon  s'pose  I  could  do  with  him?"  asked  Prosper,  with  a 
rather  cunning  twinkle. 

"  You  might  trade  him  off  to  some  other  darn  fool 
v^dio  was  half-full  of  whisky,"  answered  the  farmer,  with 
bitter  sarcasm.  This  evidently  put  an  idea  into  Pros- 
per's  head.  He  looked  out  at  the  horse  standing  in 
front  of  his  store.  He  was  certainly  a  fine  appearing- 
animal. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  want  to  trade  back?  "  he  finally 
asked. 

"  That's  just  what  I  asked  you." 

"  But  I  didn't  answer  it,  did  I? " 

"  No,  I  noticed  that." 


I 


TIIF,    SF.QUKI,    TO    A    MnKSK- I'R  A  |)E. 


!():» 


"  Well,  notice  it  once  more.  The  propersition  niusL 
come  from  you  this  time.  1  told  you  hist  ni,i,'-ht  how  I'd 
trade,  and  now  it's  for  you  to  say  how  you'll  tratlo 
back." 

"  I  paid  you  $20  to  boot  last  night,  didn't  I?" 

Prosper  nodded  his  head  indifferently. 

"Well,  you  ^dvc  me  $15  of  that  back  and  take  your 
horse,  and  I'll  take  mine.     You  never  made  $5  easier." 

The  store-keeper  was  leaning"  carelessly  against  the 
counter,  and  when  the  farmer  made  this  proposition  he 
looked  off  out  of  the  window  and  began  whistling  s(>me 
slow  air  in  a  quiet,  subdued  tone,  as  if  oblivious  to 
everybody  around  him.  The  farmer  looked  at  him 
intently,  and  commenc*.;d  to  get  uneasy. 

"vSo  you  won't  do  it,  hey?"  he  ventured. 

Prosper  slowly  shook  his  head,  still  looking  out  of  the 
window. 

"Well,  what  7t'///  you  do,  then?"  asked  the  farmer, 
somewhat  desperately. 

"You're  makin'  the  propersitions  this  time,"  was  the 
cool  reply. 

"AH  right;  you  can  keep  $10  of.  the  boot  money, 
then." 

Another  slow  snake  of  the  head. 

"Well,  for  God's  sake  take  $15  of  it,  then!  vSwindle 
me  right  out  of  $15  if  you  want  to.  Shove  your 
hand  down  into  a  man's  pocket  and  steal  $15  cnit  of  it, 
just  because  you've  got  a  good  chance.  Will  that  do 
you?     Will  $15  do  you?  " 

Prosper  began  to  arrange  some  plugs  of  tobacco  on 
the  shelf  behind  him,  whistling  the  same  slow  tune. 

"  What  in  thunder  do  you  mean,  anyhow? "  stormed 
the  farmer.     "  Ain't  you  goin'  to  take  the  $15?" 


106 


THE    lIF.RMrr    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


A  slower  shake  (^f  tlie  head  than  ever,  without  turn- 
ing from  the  tobacco. 

Tlie   farmer  looked  at  him  for  a  m.oment,  and  then, 

suddenly  whccliufi;'  around,  told  him  to  "^o  to ,"  and 

went   out,   slamniin^.j;-   the    door   viciously.      He   drove 
across  the  road   to  Jerry's  tavern,  and  tying-  the  hor^e,     » 
disappeared  in  the  bar-room. 

"  He'll  git  drunk,  and  then  come  back  here  and  abuse 
me,  I  s'pose,"  was  Prosper's  uncomfortable  reflection. 
But  while  the  store-keeper's  reasoning  certainly  ap- 
peared plausible,  it  turned  out  amiss  this  time,  for  the 
farmer  had  not  much  more  than  entered  the  tavern 
when  he  came  out  again,  and  walking  across  the  street, 
approached  Prosper  in  a  more  subdued  manner. 

"  No  use  talkin',"  he  said.  "  You've  got  the  bulge  on 
me,  and  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  put  up  with  it.  You  can 
keep  the  whole  $20.  Let's  change  horses  and  be  done 
with  it.  It's  pretty  tough  to  throw  away  $20.  but  I 
can't  take  that  blind  horse  home  with  me  as>;ain." 

"Tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  Prosper,  leaning  over, 
with  his  elbows  on  the  counter.  "  Tell  you  what  I'll 
do.  I'll  trade  back  all  right,  seein'  you  will  have  it  that 
way,  but  you  must  leave  that  harness  on  the  Mind 
horse  and  hitch  your  horse  up  in  my  harness.  You 
see  that  harness  fits  the  blind  horse  at  present,  and  I've 
fitted  my  harness  to  your  horse,  so  it'll  save  takin'  up 
and  lettin'  out  a  good  deal." 

"Well,  but  I  can't  do  that,"  expostulated  the  farmer. 
"  That  is  a  brand-new  harness  that  I  bought  at  Port 
Rowen  yesterday,  while  yours  is  an  old  one.  I'll  fit  the 
horses  myself.     You  needn't  bother  about  that." 

"Welly yoit  needn't  bother  about  it  either,"  said  Pros- 
per, significantly. 


ID 


THE   SEQUEL    TO    A    HORSE-TRADE. 


107 


The  farmer  looked  at  him  in  a  queer  way.  **So  you 
won't  trade  back  without  the  harnevSS  thrown  in' " 

*•  Not  exactly  thrown  in,"  said  Prosper.  "  We  trade 
harness  as  well  as  horses,  that's  all." 

A  peculiar  light  came  i:ito  the  farmer's  eye — not 
altogether  a  pleasant  light.  ^^  All  right,"  he  said,  sim- 
ply, "goto  the  stable  and  harness  my  horse,  while  I 
unhitch  this  one  from  the  wagon." 

As  Prosper  saw  the  blind  horse  led  into  the  stall 
with  a  new  harness  on,  he  felt  quite  well  disposed 
tt)ward  the  world  generally,  but  the  farmer  had  not 
driven  away  many  rods  when  he  was  hailed  by  the 
store-keeper,  who  exclaimed: 

"Hold  on!  Come  back  here  with  my  harness,  you 
rascal!  You've  cut  this  harness  all  up,  and  I  won't 
have  it." 

"  You  was  bound  to  have  it  a  few  minutes  ago,  and 
now  you've  got  it,"  answered  the  farmer,  with  the  first 
pleased  look  on  his  face  he  had  exhibited  that  day. 

"Yes,  but  you  have  ruined  it  with  your  jack-knife, 
and  I'll  have  you  arrested  if  you  don't — " 

"  You'll  have  to  prove  that  I  cut  it  first,"  sang  out  the 
farmer,  derisively,  driving  away  all  the  while,  and 
grinning  back  in  a  taunting  manner  at  Prosper. 

"You're  a  scoundrel!  "  cried  Prosper. 

"Scoundrel  would  be  a  pet  name  for  you,"  said  the 
farmer.  "If  that  harness  doesn't  suit  you,  just  buy 
another  with  that  $20  you  swindled  me  out  of." 

"  I'd  rather  be  a  swindler  than  a  sneak,"  yelled 
Prosper. 

"  I'd  rather  be  a  sneak  than  a  hypocrite  and  liar,'" 
shouted  the  farmer. 

"  You're  both  of  'em  yourself,"  shrieked  Prosper. 


108 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


*'  You're  all  four  put  together,"  was  the  retort. 
*'  Throw  you  into  a  pot  and  boil  you  down  and  there'd 
be  nothing  left  but  a  mass  of  meanness  and  bad 
grease." 

"  I'd  like  to  hang  your  hide  on  a  barn  door  to  dry 
and  then  use  it  for  a  target,"  was  the  soothing  re- 
sponse. 

"  There  wouldn't  be  enough  of  your  hide  left  to 
shoot  at  if  I  got  hold  of  you,"  came  the  comforting 
reply. 

And  with  these  tender  compliments  the  distance 
grew  too  great  for  even  the  highly  pitched  voices  to 
travel,  and  the  belligerents  had  to  content  themselves 
with  shakings  of  the  head,  and  mutterings,  and  sub- 
dued threats. 


XIII. 
SEARCHING   FOR   THE   WILD    MAN. 


A  CCORDING  to  arrangements  made  after  the  deer 
^^^  hunt,  Barlow  Dreeme  eame  out  from  Port  Rowen 
the  following-  week,  and  he  and  Bonaventure  and  Philan- 
der started  in  search  of  the  wild  man.  B'^ob-sir  was 
invited  to  accompany  them,  out  waived  the  invitation. 
"  You  fellers  can  i^o  nosin'  off  into  that  neck  o'  per- 
dition if  you  want  to,  a  lookin'  f(;r  somethinii;'  you'll  be 
sorry  you  found;  but  as  fur's  I'm  concerned,  enoui>h's 
as  good  as  a  feast.  AVhy,  b'gob-sir,  you  dc^n't  know 
what  you're  thinking  about.  You'll  all  git  lost  in  that 
mis'able  jumpin'-off  place,  and  even  if  you  don't  lose 
yourselves,  you're  H'lole  to  run  across  somethin' 
that'll  scare  the  liver  and  lights  right  out  of  you.  I 
tell  you  what  it  is,  you  hain't  any  idea  v/hat  the  blamed 
thing  is  like.  It's  somethin'  more  than  an  animal,  and 
yet  it  ain't  human  by  a  long  shot.  I  ain't  nobody's 
fool,  I  want  you  to  understand,  and  I've  seen  S(miethin' 
of  the  world,  but  I  never  run  acro.ss  anythin'  that 
could  touch  one  side  of  that  thing  for  looks.  You  can 
go  down  there  and  tackle  it  all  you  like,  but  you  don't 
take  a  man  of  the  name  of  Brown  with  you." 

It  was  decided  by  the  men  to  go  up  one  side  of  the 
creek  and  come  back  the  other  in  their  search.  Phi- 
lander had  encountered  the  wild  man  on  the  cast  shore, 
and  Barlow  on  the  west,  and  they  were  therefore  uncer- 
tain as  to  his  exact  whereabouts. 

( 109 ) 


no 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


hi! 


*'  Let's  take  in  the  west  bank  first,"  said  Barlow,  when 
they  arrived  at  the  creek,  "  and  then  if  necessary  we 
can  cross  over  and  come  down  this  side.  This  shore  is 
terribly  rough,  and  anyhow  I  believe  we'll  find  some- 
thing- on  the  other  bank." 

But  his  reckoning  proved  amiss.  After  a  weary  tramp 
of  several  hours  along  the  west  shore  without  result, 
they  were  forced  to  abandon  their  search  in  that  direc- 
tion and  cross  the  river. 

Bonaventure  seemed  disappointed.  He  had  appeared 
more  eager  and  excited  than  either  of  the  others.  "  I 
don't  believe  we'll  find  anything,"  he  ventured,  when 
they  were  starting  south  along  the  east  shore. 

"If  w'  don't  it  won't  be  because  there's  nothing 
here,"  said  the  other  two,  almost  in  a  breath,  and  with 
much  significance. 

The  men  were  working  their  way  down  into  the 
thickest  part  of  the  undergrowth  about  a  half-hour 
later,  when  Philander,  who  was  ahead,  suddenly  stopped, 
and  turning  to  one  side  picked  up  a  stone  twice  the  size 
of  a  man's  fist.  It  was  moss-covered  on  one  side,  and 
the  other  showed  fresh  from  the  earth  where  it  had 
only  recently  been  dislodged.  He  held  it  up  to  Bona- 
venture and  Barlow  with  a  meaning  expression  on  his 
face. 

"  Oh,  that  might  have  been  turned  over  by  some  ani- 
mal," said  Bonaventure. 

"  Not  likely,"  said  Barlow,  looking  intently  at  the 
stone. 

"  Especially,"  said  Philander,  *'  as  it's  been  used  to 
pound  something  with.  Look  here,"  he  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, after  examining  the  ground  for  some  distance 


SEARCHING    FOR    THE    WILD    MAN. 


Ill 


aroimd,    "there's   the   big   stone   that's  been   used   to 
pound  against." 

Sure  enough,  there  lay  a  large  stone,  with  the  moss 
displaced,  showing  where  something  had  been  battered 
upon  it. 

"  It's  butternuts,  that's  what  it  is.  Some  one  has  been 
cracking  butternuts  with  the  two  stones." 

The  three  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment, 
and  then  without  a  word  turned  to  pursue  their  search. 
They  were  more  alert  now,  more  expectant,  and  all 
three  were  excited.  They  pushed  their  way  into  diffi- 
cult places,  over  fallen  trees,  through  thick  brush, 
always  keeping  as  near  the  river  as  possible. 

The  air  was  chilly  and  the  surroundmgs  somber. 
Down  in  the  depths  of  the  ravine,  through  which  the 
river  ran,  there  was  little  stir  of  life,  but  upon  the  hill- 
side a  busy  squirrel  chattered  in  shrill  notes,  and  a 
woodpecker  thumped  resoundingly  at  a  hollow  stub.  A 
flock  of  crows  cawed  in  the  distance,  an  occasional  out- 
break among  them  seeming  to  indicate  a  lively  debate 
over  some  matter  of  great  importance — probably  the 
advisability  of  a  precipitate  journey  south  to  a  warmer 
clime.  The  tall  trees  scattered  here  and  there  among 
the  thicker  brush  sighed  ominously,  and  one  lordly  old 
pine  with  a  forked  cedar  lodged  against  him  groaned  at 
every  sweep  of  the  wind,  as  if  weary  of  his  burden. 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  pine-tree  is  tired  holding  that 
cedar  up  so  long,"  observed  Barlow,  looking  over  to 
where  the  two  trees  came  together.  "  See  how  the  cedar 
has  worn  a  deep  groove  on  each  side  of  the  pine.  It 
must  be  years  since  the  cedar  got  lodged  there." 

"Yes,  and  it  may  hang  on  for  years  yet,"  observed 
Philander. 


112 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


The  men  little  imagined  the  part  this  forked  cedar 
leaning  against  the  pine  had  played,  and  was  yet  to 
play,  in  connection  with  the  object  of  their  search. 

"Here's  a  beaten  path  —  look  you!"  suddenly 
exclaimed  Bonaventiire,  who  seemed  more  >  intent  on 
other  matters  than  the  phenomena  presented  by  a 
couple  of  trees.  "  An  animal,  it  may  be,"  he  added, 
examining  the  path;  "but  I  hardly  think  so.  In  any 
event  we'll  follow  it  up." 

Somehow  Bonaventure's  French  instincts  began  to 
appear  very  vividly  as  he  hurried  along  the  winding 
path.  He  was  unduly  excited,  and  evidently  labored 
under  a  straining  suspense.  One  instant  he  was  down 
on  his  knees  closely  scanning  the  indistinct  foot-prints, 
the  next  he  was  vigorously  pushing  his  burly  form 
through  the  thick  bushes,  and  glancing  quickly  before 
him  in  apparent  anticipation  of — something.  In  places 
the  heavy  brush  formed  a  low  archway  over  the  path, 
as  if  the  underbrush  had  been  kept  apart  by  repeated 
goings  and  comings.  On  account  of  the  wild,  rugged 
condition  of  the  earth,  the  path  wonnd  hither  and 
thither  to  avoid  rocks,  and  knolls,  and  stumps,  and 
partly  fallen  trees. 

"This  is  a  terrible  spot,"  observed  Barlow,  as  his  hat 
was  dragged  off  by  a  protruding  limb. 

"  I  can  make  nothing  out  of  it — nothing  at  all  out  of 
it — it  puzzles  me,"  said  Bonaventure,  stopping  long 
enough  to  wipe  the  perspiration  from  his  broad  brown 
forehead.  "  The  path  seems  to  go  nowhere.  It  twists 
here,  it  twists  there " — he  was  gesticulating  in  true 
French  fashion — "  but  it  comes  to  nothing.  It  must  be 
an  animal — but  no " — slowly  shaking  his  head,  and 
bending  down  once  more  to  examine  the  path — "  tJiat 


SEARCHING    FOR    THE    WILD    MAN. 


iia 


isn't  an  animal.  An  animal  makes  no  such  a  regular 
path." 

"  Yes  they  do,"  interposed  Barlow  and  Philander, 
who  were  hunters.  "  Animals  often  make  a  perfectly 
beaten  path." 

"  But  you  both  said  it  ivasn't  an  animal,"  suddenly 
turning  and  looking  at  them  in  a  queer  way. 

The  two  men  could  scarcely  fathom  Bonaventure's 
peculiar  agitation..  In  truth  it  was  something  that  no 
one  could  fathom — not  even  Bonaventure  himself. 

"  Well,  we're  not  likely  to  find  out  what  it  is  if  we 
stand  here,"  said  Philander. 

"Well,  but,  now,  look  you!  "  said  Bonaventure,  in  an 
argumentative  way.  "  What's  the  use?  Here  we've 
been  looking  and  looking,  and  tramping  and  tramping, 
and  no  end  to  it  all.     What's  the  use? " 

Philander  and  Barlow  looked  inquiringly  at  each 
other.  What  had  so  suddenly  come  over  Bonaventure  to 
make  him  hesitate  just  when  their  search  promised  some- 
thing? They  could  not  understand  it.  It  looked  as  if 
he  were  afraid,  and  yet  Bonaventure  was  no  coward. 

"  Surely  you  don't  want  to  give  up  the  search  and  go 
home  now,  when  there  is  some  prospect  of  success. 
This  path  must  lead  somewhere,  and  I  vote  we  fol- 
low it." 

"Well,  you  go  ahead,"  said  the  Frenchman,  waving 
his  big  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  path.  Then,  see- 
ing the  expression  on  the  faces  of  his  companions,  he 
broke  out:  "  No,  boys,  I'm  not  afraid.  It  ain't  that.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I  ain't  afraid.  I  never  was 
afraid — but  —  I  —  I  —  feel  queer,  somehow.  You  go 
ahead." 

Philander  led  the  way.     They  had  not  gone  far  when 


114 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


Bonaventure  broke  out  again,  after  squeezing  his  bulky- 
form  between  an  upturned  root  and  a  large  rock :  "  This 
is  awful.  Look  what  a  place.  Anything  human  to 
live  in  such  a  spot  as  this!  Boys,  you  sure  it  was 
human?     It  can't  be  human." 

"  That's  hard  to  say,"  said  Barlow.  "  But  anyhow 
you'll  surely  have  as  good  a  chance  to  judge  as  the  rest 
of  us  before  long.  If  we  don't  come  across  the  thing 
itself,  we'll  find  the  place  where  it  lives,  if  we  keep  on." 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  Philander,  who  was  a  few  steps 
in  advance.  "  See  here!  "  He  had  climbed  up  a  steep 
incline  of  rock,  along  the  sides  of  which  rude  steps 
were  formed  by  natural  indentations,  and  near  the  sum- 
mit the  path  suddenly  ended.  A  large  flat  stone 
marked  the  spot,  and  the  men,  after  studying  the  situ- 
ation, decided  to  move  the  stone.  When  pushed  aside 
it  revealed  an  opening  leading  into  a  dark  cavern  made 
by  a  cleft  in  the  rock.  The  opening  was  nearly  round, 
but  so  small  that  a  man  the  size  of  Bonaventure  could 
not  have  forced  his  body  through.  The  edges  of  the 
rock  on  two  sides  were  worn  smooth,  indicating  the  fre- 
quent passage  of  something  in  and  out  of  the  cave. 
The  men  peered  cautiously  into  the  opening,  but  could 
discern  nothing  in  the  darkness. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  see  what's  in  there,  anyhow,"  said 
Philander,  striking  a  light,  and  holding  it  into  the 
mouth  of  the  cavern. 

"Well,  if  that  ain't  a  pictiire!  "  he  exclaimed,  a 
moment  later,  withdrawing  his  head  as  the  light  went 
out.  "  That  beats  anything  I  ever  seen  in  civilization. 
There's  nothing  alive  in  there,  but  there's  more  truck 
and  dicker  than  you  could  shake  a  stick  at  in  a  month 
of  Sundays.  You  jest  keep  watch  on  the  outside  here, 
and  I'll  go  down  and  explore." 


SEARCHING    FOR    THE    WILD    MAN. 


115 


After  forcing  his  way,  with  some  difficulty,  tlirough 
the  opening,  he  exclaimed: 

"Why,  it  ain't  so  dark,  after  all,  when  you're  once 
inside." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  see  in  there?" 

"  What  don't  I  see?  Better  ask  me  that.  I  could  answer 
it  easier.  Here's  a  lot  of  old  bones  cut  and  carved  into 
the  funniest  shapes  you  ever  saw,  and  stuck  here  and 
there  all  over  the  place.  And  here's  some  furs  piled 
up  in  one  corner.  I  wondered  what  had  been  at  my 
traps  along  the  creek  for  the  last  two  or  three  years. 
And  there's  a  piece  of  old  yellow  newspaper  fastened  to 
the  side  of  the  cave  by  runnin'  a  twig  through  it  and 
pinnin'  it  into  a  crevice  in  the  rock.  Well,  if  that  ain't — 
Good  Lordy,  what  kind  of  readin'  is  this,  anyhow?  The 
paper  is  yellow  enough  to  be  a  thousand  years  old,  but 
for  all  that  I  could  read  it  if — if  it  zuas  readin'.  But 
such  a  mixed-up  mess  of  letters  you  never  saw.  What 
do  you  suppose  this  spells  ?    '  C-h-a-q-u-e-t-t-e  F-i-l-s  ' — " 

"  Never  mind  the  paper;  tell  us  what  else  is  there," 
said  Bonaventure,  impatiently. 

"  Well,  here's  some  dried  meat,  and  an  old  sap-bucket, 
and  nuts — why,  there's  nuts  enough  here  to  keep  a  bear 
eatin'  ten  years;  hazel-nuts,  beech-nuts  and  butter- 
nuts— loads  of  'em.  And  an  old  flint-lock  musket, 
made,  I  should  say,  about  the  time  of  the  flood,  a  pat- 
tern I  never  saw  before;  and  an  odd  kind  of  tobacco- 
pipe  too.  Bonaventure,  you  ought  to  have  this.  Doesn't 
look  as  if  it  had  been  smoked  since  the  War  of  1812." 

"No,"  said  Bonaventure,  "  I  don't  want  it.  Leave  it 
there.  What  else? "  he  asked,  greedy  for  further  infor- 
mation. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  all,"  answered  Philander, 


116 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


•i 


glancing  around  him  curiously.  "  The  walls  of  the  cave 
are  all  marked  with  the  queerest  figures,  as  if  the  rock 
had  been  carved  with  some  kind  of  a  sharp  instrument, 
probably  a  sharp-cornered  flint-stone.  But  these  nuts, 
you  ought  to  see  'em — must  be  millions.  Well,  that's 
the  snuggest  little  spot  I've  seen  for  many  a  day,"  he 
remarked,  as  he  was  climbing  out.  "  I  wouldn't  mind 
livin'  in  there  myself." 

"  Now  the  question  comes  as  to  the  occupant,"  said 
Barlow. 

"Yes,  that's  so,  that's  so;  there  t's  something,  after 
all,"  remarked  Bonaventure,  half  to  himself. 

The  men  were  standing  near  the  opening  of  the  cave, 
and  Philander  had  just  replaced  the  stone,  when  Bar- 
low, looking  down  toward  the  creek,  remarked: 

"  Why,  see;  we're  right  opposite  the  big  pine  and  the 
forked  cedar.  I  had  no  idea  they  were  in  sight  yet. 
That  path  must  be  terribly  crooked." 

Suddenly  Bonaventure  began  to  act  strangely.  He 
darted  to  one  side,  and  stared  down  at  the  pine-tree,  as 
if  trying  to  see  something  on  the  other  side  of  it.  The 
cedar  leaned  against  it  from  the  opposite  direction,  and 
little  of  it  could  be  seen  except  the  forked  portion. 

"See!  see!  Quick!  Look  you!  look  yon!"  excitedly 
exclaimed  the  Frenchman,  beckoning  to  the  other  two. 

Hurrying  to  where  he  stood.  Barlow  and  Philander 
saw  scrambling  down  the  inclined  cedar  the  identical 
object  that  they  had  each  encountered  before  in  the 
woods. 

^'  Mon  Dieu!  Mon  Dieu!  This  is  dreadful.  It  can't 
be  human.  It  7/mst  be  human.  Tell  me,  is  t/mf  what 
you  saw? "  asked  Bonaventure,  turning  to  the  others. 
They  both   nodded.     Then  the  three,  with  a  common 


r 


SEARCHING     FOR     IMF,    WIT, I)    MAN. 


m 


purpose,  started  quickly  clown  the  path  toward  the 
trees. 

But  when  they  arrived,  all  trace  of  the  lively  moving^ 
creature  was  lost,  and  search  as  they  would,  they  could 
not  again  get  track  of  it.  It  seemed  to  move  so  noise- 
lessly through  the  bushes  that  not  a  sound  was  audi- 
ble. What  appeared  more  peculiar  still  was  the  fact 
that  there  was  no  distinguishable  path  leading  up  to 
the  foot  of  the  cedar,  while  the  one  they  had  followed 
to  the  cave  had  its  distinct  origin  at  that  point. 
Clearly  there  was  some  connection  between  the  cedar 
and  the  cave,  but  what  it  was  they  were  unable  to 
determine. 

Night  was  approaching,  and  there  was  nothing  left 
for  the  men  but  to  abandon  further  investigation,  for 
that  day  at  least,  and  go  home. 


XIV. 
PIERRE   DUFRESNE. 


11 7"  HEN  the  story  had  been  told  at  Bonaventure's 
'  ^  fireside  that  night,  and  the  matter  fully  dis- 
cussed, it  was  the  general  conclusion  that  little  more 
could  be  done  for  the  present  to  unravel  the  mystery. 

**  I've  been  away  from  the  camp  two  days  now  inside 
of  a  week,"  said  Bonaventure,  "and  the  skidways  are 
not  filling  up  as  fast  as  they  should;  so  I  must  look 
sharp  after  my  work.  But,  look  you,"  he  added, 
impressively,  "  we  must  know  more  about  it.  It  must 
be  tracked,  and  followed,  and  watched;  and  if  neces- 
sary it  must  be  caught.  Anyhow,  we  must  know  more 
about  it.  It  will  never  do — in  this  age — a  human 
being — (it  ;/ii(st  be  human),"  he  interposed  to  himself 
imder  his  breath.  "  A  human  being  to  go  like  that — it 
will  never  do." 

"Well  now,  let  me  tell  you,"  broke  in  B'gob-sir,  who 
had  been  waiting  at  the  McGlorries  since  early  in  the 
evening  to  hear  the  report  of  the  searching-party,  "  my 
opinion  is  that  the  best  thing  to  do  is  to  do  nothing  at 
all.  What  you  goin'  to  do  with  it  if  you  should  catch 
it?  That's  what  I'd  like  to  know.  You  can't  start  a 
menagerie  with  it  if  it  should  turn  out  to  be  an  animal, 
and  you  can't  make  a  man  of  it  if  it  should  turn  out  to  be 
a  monkey,  and  you  can't  make  nothin'  at  all  out  of  it  if 
it  should  turn  out  to  be  a  man.  Now  what  the  dickens 
is  the  sense  o'  scarin'  folks  to  death  for  nothin'? " 

(US) 


PIERRE    DUFRESNE. 


119 


, 


"  Faith,  and  I  think  the  same  thing-,"  said  Mrs. 
McGlorrie,  with  much  fervency.  *'  I've  alius  been  agin 
it.  No  earthly  good  can  come  of  it,  I  can  tell  you 
that — traipsin'  off  like  all  possessed  a  meddlin'  with 
things  that's  none  of  your  affair." 

**  I  don't  see  myself  that  much  good  can  be  accom- 
plished by  a  further  search,"  remarked  Barlow. 

*'  No,"  said  Philander,  looking  into  the  fire,  and 
speaking  slowly,  as  if  his  mind  were  at  a  distance.  "  It 
docs  look  as  if  it  was  foolish  to  follow  it  up — " 

"  Oh,  you're  all  cowards,  every  one  of  you,"  snapped 
out  Gabrielle,  who  had  been  listening  intently.  "  That 
is,  every  one  but  father,"  she  added,  as  he  turned  to 
look  at  her  in  some  surprise  at  the  outbreak.  "  I  wish 
I  was  a  man,"  partly  to  herself,  but  loud  enough  for 
her  mother  to  catch  it. 

"  Well  now,  just  listen  to  that,  will  you?  Gabrielle, 
you're  out  of  all  manner  of  reason  with  anything  I  ever 
seen  in  the  shape  of  a  girl.  You're  always  taken  up 
with  something  that's  more  befitted  to  hathens  than  to 
civilized  bein's.  There's  them  moccasins  you  brought 
home  with  you  the  other  day  from  that  dirty  old 
Indian.  I'll  say  this  for  him,  though,  I'd  no  idee  he'd 
ever  make  'em  for  you." 

"  So  Andy  brought  you  the  moccasins,  did  he? "  Phi- 
lander remarked,  with  a  smile.  "  I  guess  he  wanted- to 
keep  his  hide  whole." 

"  Gabe,"  piped  in  Dennie — virtuous  little  Dennie, 
"next  time  you  catch  a  fish,  you'll  git  me  a  pair  of 
moccasins,  won't  you? " 

"  There  now,  jiist  listen  to  the  boy,"  again  broke  out 
Mrs.  McGlorrie.  "  Dinnie,  it's  your  bed-time  long  ago. 
Off  with  you  this  minute.     Moccasins  indeed;  and  you 


r 


I 


I 


120 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


with  as  good  a  pair  of  boots  as  a  boy  ever  had — red  tops, 
copper  toes,  and  all." 

Gabrielle  watched  her  chance,  and  when  no  one 
noticed,  she  reminded  Philander  of  his  promise  to  take 
her  up  Eraser's  Creek  some  day. 

"All  right,  Gabc,  I'll  do  it,  if  it  scares  you  into  fits." 

'*  I'll  risk  the  scare,"  with  a  toss  of  her  head  and  a 
curl  of  her  lip. 

"  Gabe,  you're  purtier  when  you  try  to  be  saccastic 
than  you  be  any  other  time,  and  blamed  if  you  ain't 
purty  any  time." 

**  Philander,  I  wouldn't  take  that  from  another  man 
on  earth  only  you.     I'd  slap  him  in  the  face." 

"  I  believe  you,  Gabe." 

*'  Well,  good-night.  I  like  you  all  the  better  for  say- 
ing it." 

"  I  believe  you  there  again." 

"  Go  on,  now;  you'll  say  too  much  if  you  ain't  careful." 

"Well,  good-night." 

The  next  morning  Bonaventure  went  over  to  the 
lumber-camp  bright  and  early,  and  found  all  the  men 
hard  at  work  except  one  of  his  countrymen,  Pierre 
Dufresne. 

"  Well,  Pierre,  what's  the  matter  this  morning? "  asked 
Bonaventure. 

"Oh,"  answered  the  Frenchman,  with  a  woebegone 
countenance  and  a  hand  laid  distressingly  over  his 
stomach,  "  I  got  a  crank  on  my  stom-meek." 

Pierre  frequently  had  this  same  "  crank,"  and  it  was 
noticeable  that  it  always  came  on  just  at  a  time  when 
he  was  most  needed  in  the  woods.  Moreover,  the  affec- 
tion appeared  peculiar  from  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
singularly  healthy  and  robust  individual  in  appearance; 


J 


V 


PIERRE    DUFRESNE. 


131 


' 


' 


\, 


) 


and  no  matter  how  severe  the  "  crank  "  happened  to  be 
Pierre  could  be  counted  on  to  do  double  duty  at  meal- 
time. 

"  What's  wrong  with  Pierre?  "  asked  one  of  the  under 
foremen  of  Bonaventure,  as  he  was  walking-  across  the 
yard  to  the  camp. 

"  Oh,  he's  got  a  '  crank'  again,"  replied  Bonaventure, 
with  a  screwing  up  of  his  face  and  a  mock  solicitation 
which  was  not  without  its  humorous  effect. 

"Why  don't  you  sack  that  lazy  dog,  Bonaventure?" 

The  foreman  simply  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said, 
evasively: 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"  Guess  it's  because  he's  a  Frenchman,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Mebbe  it  is — I  don't  know — mebbe  it  is." 

Pierre  was  a  married  man,  and  lived  with  his  wife 
in  a  small  log  cabin  near  the  main  camp,  "  My  waf 
she  lak  to  wash,  you  see,"  he  always  said,  with  an  apol- 
ogetic grin,  to  any  one  who  chanced  to  see  her  at  her 
usual  avocation  of  bending  over  the  tubs. 

"Like  to  wash  indeed;  yes,  I'm  sure  any  one  would 
like  such  work  as  this,"  was  Mrs.  Dufresne's  testy 
rejoinder.  "  Straining  a  body's  life  and  soul  out  every 
day  tryin'  to  get  these  shantymen's  clothes  clean;  and 
then  only  paid  enough  to  barely  buy  bread  and  potatoes, 
when  a  lazy  shirk  of  a  husband  does  nothing  but  cat 
them.  I  don't  like  this  work  any  more  than  you  like 
rollin'  logs  in  the  woods,  but  I  don't  wiggle  out  of  it  as 
often  as  you  do." 

Pierre  always  took  these  tirades  with  a  good-humored 
grin.  "  My  waf,  j^-ou  see,  she  has  her  tongue,  mebbe — 
but  then,  all  the  same,  she  lak  to  work." 

It  was  a  way  he  had  of  easing  a  rather  sleepy  con- 


122 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


science  to  insist  that  his  wife  preferred  labor  to  rest. 
As  for  himself,  he  had  a  lively  appreciation  of  the  com- 
forts of  life,  with  an  exaggerated  aversion  to  the  discom- 
forts. He  would  smack  his  lips  with  satisfaction  over 
a  drink  of  cool  spring-water,  but  never  could  see  the 
philosophy  of  taking  a  pail  to  the  spring  and  carrying 
the  water  himself.  He  was  fond  of  finery  of  the  flashy, 
shoddy  sort,  and  doted  on  a  new  woolen  sash,  highly 
colored,  as  a  boy  would  over  a  brilliant  toy.  He  had  a 
way  all  his  own  of  tying  his  sash,  and  while  the  other 
shantymen  were  content  with  winding  theirs  around 
them  and  giving  them  a  careless  twist,  for  the  practical 
purpose  of  holding  them  in  place,  Pierre  always  took 
great  pains  to  see  that  his  had  a  nicely  turned  knot 
precisely  in  front  of  him,  and  that  the  tasseled  ends 
were  brought  around  to  his  right  hip,  tucked  under  the 
belt  and  carefully  spread  out  to  make  the  most  elabo- 
rate display.  Underwear,  as  the  term  is  usually  under- 
stood, was  little  indulged  in  by  the  shantymen.  If  one 
pair  of  trousers  was  not  warm  enough,  two  pairs  were 
worn,  the  larger  drawn  over  the  smaller.  Usually  one 
pair  was  too  old  and  tattered  to  be  worn  in  any  other 
way,  and  this  fact  led  Pierre  to  revolt  against  the  prac- 
tice; so  he  accordingly  mustered  the  means  to  buy  him- 
self a  regulation  pair  of  drawers.  The  problem  now 
was  to  let  his  friends  know  of  his  acquisition.  In  his 
own  mind  he  had  risen  vastly  in  social  rank  the  moment 
a  new  pair  of  drawers  lay  concealed  beneath  his 
trousers,  but  the  very  fact  that  they  were  concealed 
worried  him.  He  went  around  among  the  men  all  day 
when  he  first  put  them  on,  with  this  load  on  his  mind. 
He  thought  at  one  time  of  contriving  in  some  way  to 
make  a  slit  in  his  trousers  on  the  limb  of  a  tree,  and 


r 


PIERRE   DUFRESNE. 


123 


thus  expose  his  drawers,  but  the  awful  thought  Hashed 
across  him  that  he  rpight  accidently  tear  the  drawers. 
Sitting  moodi'y  by  the  fire  in  the  evening,  revolving 
the  thing  in  his  mind,  he  startled  the  men  around  him 
by  suddenly  slapping  his  thigh  with  his  hand,  and 
enthusiastically  exclaiming:  "  Das  my  trawsers,  avcc 
my  drawers/     By  golly ^  she's  warm! 

"  Pierre,"  said  Bonaventure  the  next  morning  after 
the  "  crank,"  '*  I  guess  the  only  way  to  get  any  work 
out  of  you  is  to  let  you  drive  a  team.  You  can  hitch 
up  the  kedge  team  and  go  down  to  Port  Rowen  after 
provisions." 

Pierre  was  delighted.  There  was  little  work  about 
this,  and  he  could  manage  to  throw  a  great  deal  of 
importance  into  the  position.  He  soon  had  his  team 
decorated  with  cheap  ribbon,  though  to  speak  literally 
the  horses  did  not  suffer  from  over-grooming.  Before 
he  had  been  a  week  in  charge  of  the  team  he  had 
assumed  a  proprietorship  in  them  that  was  ludicrous. 
"  Das  de  bes'  team  I  ever  draw  a  lang.  Af  any  man 
ax  me  what  I  take  for  dat  team,  I  ax  'em  right  off,  I 
shan't  touch  it." 

'*  Pierre  will  own  the  whole  camp  before  the  winter 
is  half  over  if  he  keeps  on,"  laughingly  observed  a 
shantyman  to  three  or  four  comrades  as  they  listened 
to  this  remark. 

"There's  one  thing  he  won't  own,  though,  if  he 
doesn't  look  out,"  said  another.  *'  He  will  have  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  or  he  won't  own  his  wife  very  long. 
That  woman'U  leave  him  sure,  and  I  wouldn't  blame 
her  a  bit  if  she  did.  She's  supported  him  ever  since 
they  was  married." 

"  Leave  him!     Not  much  she  won't.     You  don't  know 


III 


124 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


what  you're  talkin'  about.  A  woman  will  stick  to  a 
great  lazy  lunkhead  of  a  fop  like  him  and  work  her 
finger-ends  off,  but  let  a  decent,  plain,  hard-handed 
sort  of  a  fellow  come  along  and  she'll  stick  up  her  nose 

at  him.     Oh,  d n  the  wimmen!  I  hain't  no  use  for 

em. 

This  latter  remark  was  expressed  with  such  bitter 
significance  that  it  is  possible  the  speaker  had  passed 
through  some  personal  experience  which  had  warped 
his  ideas  of  such  matters;  and  if  the  history  of  all  shan- 
tymen  were  known,  it  might  be  found  that  many  of 
them  had  drifted  into  this  kind  of  life  as  the  result  of 
misimderstandings  which,  if  we  are  permitted  to  esti- 
mate the  possibilities  of  human  happiness,  never  should 
have  occurred. 


f 


XV. 

AN   OLD-TIME   REVIVAL. 

A  UTUMN  has  passed  rather  abriiptly  into  winter, 
'^~*'  and  winter  in  the  region  about  the  Nonquon 
means  something.  It  means  snow  for  one  thing,  great 
broad  fields  of  it,  knee-deep  at  first,  and  growing 
deeper  at  each  successive  storm,  till  sometimes  it 
reaches  two,  or  even  three,  feet  on  the  level.  It  means 
cold,  clear,  crisp  weather,  which  makes  the  trees  in  the 
woods  snap  with  the  frost,  and  sends  the  blood  tingling 
through  the  checks.  Of  course  there  is  a  frozen  ear 
now  and  then,  or  a  frozen  nose,  or  even  a  frozen  finger; 
but  there  is  also  a  clear  atmosphere,  through  which  a 
peal  of  laughter  will  ring  for  a  long  distance,  and  echo 
back  other  peals.  The  sleigh-bells — best  music  of  all 
— jingle  from  morning  till  night,  and  then  far  into  the 
night,  accompanied  by  the  squeak  of  runners  over 
frozen  snow.  In  the  early  morning  a  dense  mist  comes 
from  the  breath — sometimes  thick  enough  to  be  mis- 
taken for  tobacco-smoke — filling  the  shaggy  beards  of 
the  shantymen  with  frost  and  icicles.  The  days  are 
short,  so  that  long  before  daylight  and  long  after  dark 
the  shantymen  are  waking  the  echoes  among  the  tall 
pines  with  their  shouts  and  songs.  It  is  the  happiest 
season  around  the  Nonquon. 

Mrs,  McFarlane's  *'  tar-neeps  "  are  long  since  safely 
housed,  the  foxes  which  so  ruthlessly  stole  her  pullets 
are  pretty  v/ell   shot  off,  and  the  old  "  soo  "  is  in  her 

(125) 


126 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


winter  quarters.  The  only  disturbing  reflections  which 
affect  the  widow  are  that  Donald  will  persist  in  taking 
his  team  to  the  shanty  to  work,  and  that  it  is  a  poor 
time  of  the  year  for  potash  kettles. 

Old  B'gob-sir  potters  around  Jerry's  tavern  with 
immense  ear-laps  sewed  to  his  cap  and  tied  under  his 
chin,  and  his  feet  encased  in  mammoth  moccasins. 

Prosper  Tryne  is  in  his  element,  for  this  is  the  season 
of  "protracted  meetin','*  and  if  there  is  anything 
which  Prosper  really  excels  in  it  is  "  exhortin'  "  at 
these  meetings. 

This  winter  there  was  a  new  preacher  on  the  circuit, 
with  headquarters  at  Port  Rowen,  and  he  proposed 
holding  his  first  revival  at  the  Nonquon,  that  being  one 
of  his  appointments  which  seemed  most  in  need  of  such 
work.  He  was  a  young  unmarried  man,  and  this  was 
his  first  charge.  He  was  honest,  and  in  earnest,  and 
when  he  announced  one  Sunday  after  his  sermon  that 
a  week  from  the  following  Monday  nightly  services 
would  be  held  "  for  the  purpose  of  reclaiming  lost  souls 
to  Jesus,"  there  was  a  flutter  of  expectancy  on  the  part 
of  the  little  congregation,  "  I  feel  doubly  reinforced 
for  this  work,"  he  said,  "from  th3  fact  that  I  see  so 
great  a  necessity  for  it  in  your  midst,  and  also  from  the 
fact  that  I  have  so  able  an  assistant  in  Brother  Tryne. 
I  sincerely  hope  and  pray  that  our  labors  will  result  in 
a  bountiful  harvest  being  reaped  in  this  vineyard  of 
the  Lord." 

When  B'gob-sir  heard  of  the  coming  revival,  he 
remarked:  "Well,  Prosper  prob'ly  won't  trade  horses 
much  in  the  next  few  weeks.  That's  one  blessin'  in 
advance." 

"  You'll  change  your  tune  about  Prosper  when  you 


T^imm 


AN    OLD-TIME    REVIVAL. 


127 


hear  him  exhortin'  a  little  while,"  said  one  of  the  by- 
standers. "  Mr.  Springle  may  be  a  good  devoted 
preacher,  but  when  it  comes  to  fetchin'  folks  up  to  the 
penitent  bench,  I  don't  believe  he  can  touch  one  side  of 
Prosper." 

"That's  so,"  said  Philander  Hunt,  who  overheard  the 
remark.  *'  I  think  I'd  'a'  been  converted  long  ago  by 
Prosper  if  I  hadn't  seen  anything  of  him  only  what  I've 
seen  in  protracted  meetin'.  He  does  make  a  person 
feel  for  the  time  that  everything  in  this  world  is  goin' 
to  turn  out  blacker'n  a  thunder-cloud  unless  you  come 
up  to  that  bench." 

"  Well  now,"  blurted  out  the  hostler,  "  I  don't  think 
I'll  change  my  tune  any,  because  I  don't  intend  to  go 
and  hear  him.  Why,  b'gob-sir,  the  minute  I'd  see  him 
beginning  to  put  on  a  sanctimonious  face  I'd  feel  like 
gittin'  up  and  spittin'  right  at  him.  I'd  do  it  too — 
blamed  if  I  wouldn't." 

"  Oh  no  you  wouldn't,"  said  Gabriellc,  who  happened 
to  be  passing  as  he  made  the  remark.  "  You'd  be 
blubberin'  first  thing  you  knew,  and  wipin'  your  eyes 
on  your  coat-sleeve." 

"  There  now,  I — "  But  the  crowed  laughed  at  him  so 
that  he  wheeled  and  walked  off  in  high  dudgeon  toward 
the  tavern. 

The  first  night  of  the  revival  there  were  few  faces 
seen  in  the  little  low  school-house  where  the  services 
were  held  except  those  of  the  regular  congregation. 
The  most  conspicuous  figures  were  the  Widow  Farley, 
who  was  always  on  hand  to  lead  the  singing;  ]\[rs. 
Tryne,  who  occupied  a  seat  near  the  front;  her  husband, 
who  held  the  post  of  honor  beside  the  minister;  ]\Irs. 
McGlorrie,  who  had  always  been  a  consistent  member 


128 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


of  the  church  except  when  she  had  the  row  with  Mrs. 
McFarlane  over  the  turnips,  and  who,  by  the  way,  must 
look  forward,  as  these  services  went  on,  to  a  great 
struggle  with  herself  in  order  to  develop  contrition 
enough  to  forgive  the  Scotch  woman;  and  several 
others  of  lesser  note  in  the  neighborhood.  The  meet- 
ings had  not  yet  begun  to  draw  people  from  a  distance, 
or,  as  B'gob-sir  irreverently  remarked:  "They  hadn't 
got  steam  up  yet." 

The  Rev.  Mr,  Springle  preached  a  short  sermon, 
dwelling  principally  on  the  great  good  that  might  be 
expected  from  the  gathering  together  of  even  a  few, 
provided  they  had  gathered  in  the  proper  .spirit.  He 
appealed  to  those  present  to  consecrate  their  best  efforts 
to  the  service  of  the  Lord  during  the  coming  revival, 
and  wound  up  by  saying: 

"We  will  now  sing  a  hymn,  and  while  this  is  being- 
sung  we  invite  all  those  who  are  anxious  to  serve  the  Lord 
to  come  forward  and  mingle  with  us  around  the  altar." 

The  Widow  Farley  started  the  tune  in  her  highly 
pitched,  squeaky  voice,  and  one  by  one  the  old  mem- 
bers stepped  sedately  forward  and  ranged  themselves 
along  the  bench  placed  for  penitents.  After  each  verse 
the  minister  repeated  the  invitation  to  come  forward, 
but  got  no  response  after  the  first.  When  the  singing 
was  done,  he  said: 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  so  many  hanging  back  and  show- 
ing so  much  hesitation — I  might  say  indifference — 
where  a  matter  of  so  great  importance  is  at  stake.  We 
will  now  have  a  short  season  of  prayer,  led  by  Brother 
Tryne." 

The  first  real  enthusiasm  of  the  meeting  began. 
That  prayer  was  a  revelation  to  the  Rev.  Amos  Sprin- 


AN    OLD-TIME    REVIVAL. 


129 


jTfl?,  v/ho  had  never  heard  Prosper  pray  at  revival 
l:)cfurc.  His  rci^ular,  every-day,  ordinary  prayer  was 
nothin^H"  to  this.  There  was  vSomcthing  about  the  atmos- 
phere of  a  protracted  mcetinjif  which  inspired  Prosper 
to  a  deg-ree  of  enthusiasm  that  he  could  not  muster  on 
other  occasions.  He  started  out  in  slow,  measured 
tones,  pitched  rather  low,  but  with  an  air  of  confidence 
tliat  he  had  tlie  subject  well  in  hand.  vSoon  he  began 
to  warm  up,  and  the  devout  ones  commenced  to  shout 
"Amen!"  at  proper  intervals.  As  Prosper's  voice 
arose,  his  body  began  to  sway  backward  and  forward, 
and  his  hands  to  g-o  up  and  down.  The  little  school- 
house  rang  with  his  strong',  resonant  voice,  interspersed 
with  sighings,  and  g'roanings,  and  moanings  from  the 
distressed  congregation.  The  Spirit  was  moving"  among" 
them  in  rhythm  with  the  intensity  of  the  prayer,  and 
when  the  grand  final  outburst  of  frenzy  had  come,  and 
the  words  had  died  down  to  a  breathless  "  Amen,"  it  left 
them  in  a  seething  tempest  of  euKjtion  over  their  drear 
and  sin-sick  state.  That  prayer  was  typical  of  the  series 
of  meetings  held  that  winter  at  the  Nonquon,  in  fact 
typical  of  almost  every  country  revival  of  those  days. 
They  started  rather  quietly  and  sedately,  and  the  excite- 
ment rose  with  the  progress  of  the  revival  and  the 
increased  emotion  of  the  participants,  till  finally  the 
scenes  at  the  last  few  meetings  could  be  compared  to 
nothing  short  of  bedlam. 

It  was  several  nights  before  a  really  new  convert  was 
secured.  Some  of  the  backsliders  had  been  reclaimed, 
and  the  small  circle  around  the  altar  commenced  to 
grow  as  a  consequence.  Old  Jonas  Wicklow,  who  lived 
just  over  the  hill  to  the  south,  began  to  show  symptoms 
of  indulging  in  one  of  his  periodical  conversions.     He 

9 


130 


THE  HKRMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


went  forward  every  winter  as  regularly  as  the  winter 
came,  and  at  the  close  of  each  revival  he  was  one  of  the 
most  contrite  and  promising  converts.  During  the  fol- 
lowing February  and  March  he  was  certain  to  attend 
services  regularly,  and  always  remained  to  "  class- 
meetin'."  Along  in  April  he  began  to  neglect  class- 
meeting,  sometimes  sauntering  out  at  the  close  of  the 
regular  services.  In  May  he  did  not  always  attend  reg- 
ular services,  and  by  the  end  of  June  he  remained 
home  oftener  than  he  went.  July  might  fairly  be  esti- 
mated as  the  limit,  for  after  that  he  was  never  seen  at 
church  till  the  next  revival. 

Some  of  the  younger  backsliders  too':  the  matter 
more  to  heart,  and  suffered  a  true  repentance;  but  the 
greatest  rejoicing  was  when  a  new  convert  made  his 
trembling  journey  to  the  bench. 

Miles  Tryne  had  never  professed  religion,  and  was 
on  this  account  an  enigma  to  many  of  the  church 
people,  who  could  not  understand  how  a  young  man 
surrounded,  as  he  was,  by  religious  influences  could 
fail  to  seek  conversion.  Old  B'gob-sir  met  their 
argument  with  his  usual  logic. 

"  Why,  b'gob-sir,  it's  jest  because  he  knows  his  father, 
that's  all.  He  has  seen  too  much  of  religion  to  make 
him  want  any  of  it." 

But  the  hostler  failed  to  conceive  the  fact  that  there 
comes  a  time  in  the  life  of  every  young  man — and 
young  woman  too,  for  that  matter — when  the  individ- 
ual is  more  impressionable  than  ever  before,  and  that 
time  had  arrived  with  Miles.  He  assumed  a  more 
serious  air  as  the  revival  progressed,  and  soon  attention 
was  closely  drawn  to  him.  One  evening  the  members 
centered  their  energies  to  induce  him  to  *'  bear  the  cross." 


AN    OLD-TIME    REVIVAL. 


181 


■s 


One  after  another  of  the  leading-  spirits  approached 
him,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  the  awful  state  his  soul 
was  in  while  out  of  Christ.  He  seemed  to  waver.  It 
is  a  difficult  move  for  a  young-  man  to  make,  in  the  face 
of  his  companions.  His  mother  was  praying  for  him, 
while  his  father  stood  inside  of  the  altar  adding  a  gen- 
eral exhortation  to  the  special  pleading-  of  the  others. 
The  young-  man  was  painfully  distressed.  The  world, 
the  flesh,  and  the  devil  never  assumed  such  a  terrible 
shape  to  him  before.  His  past  life  was  made  to  look 
like  a  horrible  dream — a  blind  voyage  upon  quicksands 
and  troublous  waters.  There  was  only  one  way  out. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  vSpringle  himself  walked  down  the  aisle, 
and  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the  young  man's  shoulder, 
and  talked  to  him  in  serious  tones.  Miles  began  to 
tremble — the  first  sure  symptom  of  a  breaking  away. 
The  mingled  voices  rose  and  fell  with  the  excitement 
of  the  moment,  and  every  heart  beat  high  in  suspense 
as  to  the  probable  outcome.  Attention  was  concen- 
trated on  the  two  young  men,  the  one  standing  with 
bowed  head  and  quivering  face,  the  other  pleading 
earnestly  in  his  ear.  Miles  tightly  gripped  the  back  of 
the  seat  in  front  of  him.  There  was  a  terrific  tempest 
in  his  mind.  The  first  step  was  so  hard  to  take.  He 
almost  determined  to  remain  where  he  was.  He 
heard  the  din  of  the  voices  around  him.  He  heard 
the  minister  talking  in  low  tones,  but  was  too  confused 
to  know  what  he  said.  In  a  partial  lull  he  heard  his 
mother  sobbing,  and  in  an  instant  he  had  turned  and 
was  pushing  the  minister  before  him  in  his  haste  to 
get  to  the  bench,  where  he  fell  prostrate  on  his  knees, 
with  tears  streaming  down  his  face.  A  loud  chorus  of 
*'  Hallelujahs,"   mingled  with    an    occasional    fervent 


133 


TIFF.    HERMIT    f)F    THE    NONQUON. 


"Glory  to  God!"  marked  the  journey  fnjm  tlie  back 
seat  to  the  l)ench,  and  the  youn^  man  was  soon  sur- 
rounded by  praying  brothers  and  sisters  anxious  to 
pilot  his  soul  into  the  souj^ht-for  rest. 

An  event  had  happened.  The  first  important  eon- 
version  of  the  revival  had  taken  place,  and  a  new 
impulse  was  thus  j^^iven  to  the  work.  It  created  a  mild 
sen.sation  around  the  neijihborhood,  and  advertised  the 
meetini^s. 

"  Have  y(ni  been  down  to  the  pert'acted  mectin' 
yet?  •• 

"No.     Have  you?" 

"  No.  I  heard  they  got  Miley  Tryne  last  ni^ht. 
Guess  I'll  have  to  ^o  down  and  see  what's  ji^oin'  on." 

*'  Yes,     Guess  I'll  have  to  go  too." 

This  was  a  typical  conversation  among'  some  of  the 
outsiders  who  never  attended  meetings  except  with  a 
view  to  finding  out  "  what  was  goin'  on."  A  prominent 
convert  was  about  equal  in  those  days  to  a  big  elephant 
in  the  circus  as  a  drawing-card. 

Mr.  vSpringle  soon  discovered  that  no  matter  hrw 
earnest  he  might  be  in  his  exhortation,  he  could  i  -t 
move  the  crowd  like  Prosper,  whose  magnetic  influence 
with  the  people  overshadowed  for  the  moment  any 
suspicions  they  might  have  as  to  his  daily  life.  The 
minister  therefore  turned  over  this  part  of  the  service 
to  the  store-keeper,  and  Prosper,  impressed  with  the 
importance  of  his  mission,  threw  an  energy  and  pathos 
into  the  work  which  astonished  even  those  who  had 
heard  him  in  previous  years.  As  they  sat  and  listened 
to  his  fervent  appeals  they  forgot  that  he  ever  traded 
horses,  or  cut  a  yard  of  calico  an  inch  too  short. 

The  revival  progressed,  and  nearly  a  dozen  new  con- 


T 


AN  (>i,n-riMr.  rkvivai,. 


i:].-] 


verts  were  secured.  Some  were  mere  children,  too 
yuiin}4'  by  many  years  to  realize  in  the  sli^^lUest  dcj^rce 
t'le  import  of  the  step  they  were  takinj^^.  People 
attended  from  all  parts.  Even  the  shantymen  came 
down  from  Heaver  Meadow  Point  in  {-(piads  of  six  or 
eij»ht.  They  came  "  for  the  fun  of  the  thinjif."  Pierre 
was  of  the  number.  He  was  boisterous  and  jolly  on 
the  way  down  the  first  nii^ht.  Goin^  htjme  he  was 
more  quiet.  The  second  ni^ht  he  was  not  so  jolly, 
even  on  his  way  down.  The  third  ni^ht  he  became 
converted.  The  fourth  ni^ht  he  was  the  most  hii^hly 
elated  of  all  the  converts,  and  declared  that  life  had 
never  been  worth  living  till  now.  He  was  in  an  ec- 
stasy of  delirium,  and  grew  even  more  enthusiastic  in 
his  demonstrations  than  Prosper  himself  His  religion 
held  out  through  the  revival,  and  for  (  Sunday  after 
it,  but  failed  U)  hold  out  any  longer.  He  was  more 
fickle  even  than  Jonas  Wicklow. 

The  meetings  were  drawing  to  a  closj.  The  climax 
was  ncaring,  and  yet  there  were  two  persons  who  had 
been  made  the  special  objects  of  prayer,  but  who  so  far 
had  resisted.  They  were  the  two  persons  of  all  others 
around  the  Nonquon  upon  whose  conversion  the  church 
members  had  set  their  hearts.  Prosper,  especially, 
seemed  determined  to  "  open  their  eyes  to  the  error  of 
their  ways,"  and  accordingly  framed  his  remarks  to  fit 
their  case.  But  so  far  he  had  not  shot  conviction  home 
to  them.  The  two  were  Donald  and  Gabrielle.  They 
had  attended  almost  nightly  from  the  first;  Gabrielle 
to  relieve  the  monotony  of  the  winter  evenings — an 
incentive  which,  to  speak  the  truth,  drives  more  than 
one  resident  of  the  country  to  church — and  Donald  to 
see  Gabrielle. 


134 


THE  HFRMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


Prosper  argued  that  it  would  be  a  great  card  to  get 
Donald  away  from  the  Presbyterians,  and  as  for  Gabri- 
elle,  she  ought  to  be  converted  on  general  principles — 
she  needed  it  badly  enough. 

The  last  night  came.  Prosper  determined  that  the 
opportunity  should  not  slip  by.  They  must  be  con- 
verted. His  reputation  was  at  stake.  Everybody  was 
talking  about  it,  and  even  the  minister  himself  seemed 
to  take  an  especial  interest  in  the  black-eyed  girl  who 
always  sat  next  the  wall  about  half-way  between  the 
door  and  the  altar.  It  was  generally  understood,  with- 
out being  stated  in  so  many  words,  that  the  principal 
object  of  this  last  meeting  was  to  move  upon  these  two 
young  people.  Prosper  vowed  that  if  they  came  to  the 
meeting  he  would  convert  them.  But  would  they 
come?  That  was  the  question  which  agitated  the 
minds  of  the  people  all  that  day  Some  said  they 
could  not  face  it;  others  shook  their  heads  without  say- 
ing anything.  The  time  for  meeting  came.  Every- 
body was  on  hand,  and  the  little  school-house  was 
packed.  vSuspense  was  high,  till  suddenly  the  door 
opened  and  in  walked  Gabrielle  to  her  usual  seat. 
There  were  quick  glances  in  all  directions  around  the 
room — the  people  could  not  help  it.  In  a  few  moments 
Donald  appeared,  in  company  vr  a  Pierre,  from  the 
shanty.  Donald  sat  near  the  door,  while  Pierre  stalked 
pompously  up  to  the  very  front.  Expectancy  ran  high 
— the  contest  was  on.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Springle  pleaded 
a  sore  throat,  asked  to  be  excused  from  the  regular 
sermon,  and  forthwith  turned  the  meeting  over  to 
Brother  Tryne.  He  had  learned  diplomacy  from  his 
association  with  Prosper,  and  he  argued  that  time  could 
not  be  wasted  that  night  in  a  formal  sermon. 


AN   OLD-TIME    REVIVAL. 


135 


id 


• 


Id 


PrOvSper  arose,  and  taking  the  hymn-book  in  his  hand 
turned  over  several  pages. 

"  Before  we  proceed  with  the  hymn,"  he  said,  closing 
the  book,  with  a  finger  between  the  leaves  to  ^:eep  the 
place,  "  I  have  a  few  words  I  want  to  say  to  you.  We 
have  come  here  to-night  for  the  last  time  during  this 
revival.  We  have  come  with  our  hearts  full  of  the  love 
of  God  for  what  he  has  done  for  us,  and  yet  we  have 
come  with  our  hearts  full  of  fear  and  trcmblin'  lest 
some  poor,  miserable  sinner  shall  escape  from  this 
glorious  opportunity,  and  be  doomed  to  eternal  torment. 
My  friends,  think  of  a  lake  made  all  of  fire  and  brim- 
stone, a  lake  burnin'  on  forever  and  ever  and  ever,  a 
lake  which  gits  hotter,  and  hotter,  and  hotter  every 
time  a  wicked  sinner  is  dropped  down  into  it.  Think 
of  havin'  to  sizzle  and  scorch  in  that  red-hot  mass 
through  all  the  countless  ages  of  eternity!  Some  folks 
says  that  a  sinner  is  only  to  burn  up  seven  times,  and 
then  that's  an  end  to  it;  but  I  tell  you  here  to-night 
that  this  is  not  so.  The  sinner  doesn't  git  let  off  so 
easy  as  that,  by  any  means.  The  Bible  says  that  the 
smner  is  to  endure  eternal  torment  in  a  lake  of  fire 
which  is  never  quenched.  What  does  that  mean.?  It 
means  that  the  torture  is  to  last  right  through — no  git- 
tin'  out  of  it  by  simply  burnin'  up.  No  such  an  easy 
death  as  that.  Think  of  it!  Think  of  flounderin'  round 
in  that  melted  brimstone,  with  the  yellow  stuff  runnin' 
right  into  your  eyes,  and  ears,  and  mouth,  and  not  able 
to  git  a  breath  of  fresh  air  nohow — and  think  of  doin' 
this  for  all  eternity!  Why,  you  imagine  it's  an  awful 
thing  now  if  you  burn  your  finger  jest  the  least  bit — if 
you  let  a  spark  from  the  fire  fall  on  it  for  an  instant. 
You  jump,  and  grab  your  finger,  and  stick  it  in  the 


136 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON, 


snow;  but  let  me  tell  you,  you'll  have  no  snow  there, 
and  'twon't  be  only  your  finger  that's  burnt  either.  Oh, 
my  friends,  why  not  fly  from  the  wrath  to  eome — why 
not  keep  out  of  this  awful  fire?  Why  not  eome  to  Christ 
to-night?  He  stands  ready  with  open  arms.  He  stands 
willin'  to  save  you.  Tears  of  pity  are  runnin'  down  his 
face  this  very  minute.  He  is  sweatin'  great  drops  of 
his  precious  blood  for  you  now.  Why  won't  you  come? 
Why  not  come  to  Christ?  " 

He  gave  out  the  hymn,  and  then  continued  in  a  sub- 
dued tone,  which  was  even  more  impressive  than  his 
former  eloquence:  "As  we  sing  this  hymn,  we  invite 
all  who  are  on  the  Lord's  side  to  come  forward.  It  is  a 
simple  thing  to  do.  It  jest  shows  which  side  you're  on. 
If  you  come  forward,  we  know  you  are  on  the  Lords' 
side;  if  you  hang  back,  we  know  that  you're  on  the 
side  of  one  who  will  drag  3'our  souls  straight  down  to 
perdition.  It's  an  awful  moment  for  some  of  you. 
Rise  and  sing." 

Mrs.  Farley  led  out  in  a  tremulous  voice: 

"  Come,  ye  sinners,  poor  an-d  needy. 
Weak  and  ivonnded,  sick   an-d  sore; 
Jesus  read-y   stands  io  sai'e  yon. 
Full  of  pi-iy,  lo-i'e,  an-d  power.''' 

Rushing  right  into  the  midst  of  the  last  word.  Pros- 
per infused  new  life  into  the  singing  with  his  full, 
strong  voice  highly  pitched  above  the  others,  and  his 
hand  waving  out  over  the  congregation: 

*'  Turn  io  t/ie  Lord  and  seek  sal-7'a-iion, 
Sound  i/ie  p-ra-i-s-e  of  /lis  dear  name; 
Glo-ry,  hon-or,  and  salvation, 
Christ  the  Lord  has  come  to  reign!" 

A   quite   general  movement  toward  the  front  took 


• 


AN    OLD-TIME    REVIVAL, 


137 


place,  cmbracinn^  all  of  the  old  members  and  the  new 
converts,  A  distinct  line  was  thus  drawn  between  the 
consecrated  ground  around  the  altar  and  the  abode  of 
unbelievers  in  the  rear,  Donald  and  Gabrielle  stayed 
with  the  sinners. 

Prosper  looked  straight  at  Gabrielle  and  turned  his 
batteries  point-blank  in  her  direction.  He  knew  if  1  c 
captured  her  Donald  would  surrender  arms  uncon- 
ditionally. 

"  There  are  some  within  the  sound  of  my  voice,"  he 
began,  "  for  whom  the  prayers  of  this  congregation 
have  been  goin'  up  for  weeks,  and  yet  they  remain 
blind  to  the  awful  chances  they  are  takin'  by  stubborn- 
ly holdin'  out  against  the  dictates  of  even  their  own 
conscience,  I  know  their  conscience  must  prick  'em. 
How  can  it  help  it?  How  can  they  even  dare  to  draw 
a  natural  breath  while  every  minute  they  are  flyin' 
right  in  the  face  of  Providence  by  refusin'  such  an 
opportunity  as  this?  Why,  jest  think  of  it!  It's  like 
defyin'  God.  I  feel  constrained  to  believe  that  the 
Lord  brought  about  these  meetin's  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  savin'  their  souls,  and  here  they  are  jest  as 
much  as  sayin'  to  the  Lord  that  they  don't  want  his 
salvation,  Wh)^  its  awful,  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it!  I'd  expect  to  be  struck  dead  on  my  way  home  from 
this  meetin'  if  I  held  out  like  they  are  doin'.  And  who 
knows  but  what  they  will  be?  No  one  can  tell  what  is 
to  happen.  We  are  never  sure  of  our  lives  a  single 
minute.  We  may  none  of  us  ever  see  the  morning 
light  again.  Think  of  it!  And  then  for  any  one  to 
hold  out,  when  it's  such  a  simple  thing  to  come  forward 
here  and  be  saved.  Again  we  ask  you,  while  we  are 
singin'  the  rest  of  this  hymn,  to  come  forward.     In  the 


r 


138 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


w 


name  of  the  Lord,  in  the  name  of  the  blessed  angels 
that  are  hoverin'  round  you  this  very  minute,  in  the 
name  of  your  family  and  friends,  we  plead  with  you  to 
come  forward." 

But  the  hymn  was  finished  without  a  response. 

"  Let  us  pray,"  said  Prosper.  "  Let  us  put  up  such  a 
petition  to  the  Throne  of  Grace  that  the  old  enemy 
Satan  will  be  forced  out  of  the  hearts  of  his  victims 
here  to-night.     Let  us  pray." 

He  began  in  a  general  way,  and  offered  up  a  prayer 
for  everybody  indiscriminately;  then,  warming  to  his 
work,  he  continued: 

'*  And  O  Lord,  we  hiive  some  with  us  to-night — ah, 
some  who  are  sorely  in  need  of  thy  salvation — ah, 
some  who  are  stiff-necked  and  will  not  yield — ah.  O 
Lord,  come  down  in  thy  almighty  power — ah,  come 
down  and  rescue  these  poor  pcrishin'  souls — ah.  Send 
down  thine  arrows  of  conviction — ah;  send  them  right 
down  this  minute,  O  Lord.  Yes,  dear  Lord,  we  have 
some  with  us  to-night — ah,  some  whose  souls  w'e  can 
not  yield  up  to  Satan — ah.  O  Lord,  make  thy  pres- 
ence known — ah;  pick  'cm  out.  Lord — pick  out  these 
poor  sinners,  and  claim  them  with  thy  savin'  grace. 
O  Lord,  there  is  o/ie  among  their  number — O  Lord, 
we  must  save  that  one — ah.  Lord,  come  down  like  a 
mighty  chariot  of  fire — ah,  and  snatch  this  poor  soul 
from  the  clutches  of  Satan — ah.  Satan  has  a  terrible 
hold  on  her.  Lord.  He  has  his  chains  wound  tight 
around  her,  doubled  and  twisted,  and  welded  solid — ah. 
O  Lord,  break  those  chains!  Nothing  but  thine  all- 
powerful  will  can  save  her.  Snatch  her  like  a  precious 
brand  from  the  burnin' — ah.  Cast  her  sins  away  from 
her,  like  the  flesh-pots  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrer — ah.     O 


' 


i 


AN    OLD-TIME    REVIVAL. 


139 


. 


Lord,  we  can  not  give  her  up — ah.  You  must  save 
her,  Lord — ah.  You  must  save  her — ah.  You  must 
save  her  to-night — ah;  yes,  this  very  night — ah;  this 
very  hour — ah.  You  must  come  right  down — ah,  right 
down  now — ah,  right  down  this  minute — ah.  Make 
ihy  presence  known — ah  by  savin'  this  poor  lost 
lamb — ah,  and  bringin'  her  safe  into  the  fold — ah, 
O  Lord! — ah,  O  precious  Jesus! — ah,  O  heavenly  Spirit 
— ah,  descend  upon  us! — ah,  and  take  us  into  Thine 
eternal  rest — ah,  forever  and  ever.     Amen." 

As  the  congregation  rose  to  their  seats  the  majority 
found  it  impossible  to  avoid  glancing  over  to  where 
Gabrielle  sat,  to  see  how  she  was  affected.  Such  per- 
sonal allusions  in  a  prayer  were  not  customary,  and  they 
all  felt  that  the  crisis  had  come  with  Gabrielle.  Many 
of  them  were  convinced  by  the  expression  on  her  face 
and  her  somewhat  deepened  color  that  conviction  had 
been  driven  home  at  last,  and  that  it  was  only  a  matter 
of  the  next  exhortation  when  she  would  go  forward. 

Prosper  remained  on  his  knees  several  seconds,  over- 
come with  the  tempest  of  his  emotions,  and  was  the  last 
to  rise.  He  sat  quietly  down,  with  his  hand  shading 
his  eyes,  apparently  unable  to  divert  his  mind  from 
the  spirit  of  his  prayer. 

Mr.  Springle,  noting  the  situation,  arose  and  said: 

"  We  will  now  have  a  short  experience  meeting.  We 
want  to  know  what  the  Lord  has  done  for  those  who 
have  manifested  their  determination  to  enlist  in  his 
service.  We  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  some  of  the 
more  recent  converts.  Their  experience  is  always  inter- 
esting." 

Instantly  Pierre  was  on  his  feet. 

"  My   frans,"  he  began,  very  impressively,  "  I  was 


140 


THE    IIKRMIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


about  de  weekcdest  li'l  sinner  in  dat  whole  shantee. 
Sawm-tam  I  sivear.  Yas,  my  frans,  dass  so — dass  so," 
shaking  his  head  very  seriously.  "  Sawm-tam  I  got  a 
crank  on  my  stom-cek,  sawm-tam,  w'en  I  hain't  got  no 
crank/  Dass  so.  I  no  ax  any  man  how  weeked  I  was, 
de  shanty-men  dey  knoiv.  Dey  can  tol'  you.  An'  my 
waf,  she  can  tol'  you.  Oh,  I  was  ivcckcd!  Well — dass 
all  right  now.  I  cam  here  dat  odder  tarn.  I  feel  good 
w'en  I  cam,  hot  after  li'l  whal  I  no  feel  so  good.  I  got 
a  pain — I  got  a  pain  raght  here,"  placing  both  hands 
over  his  heart,  "an'  I  ax  mysalf,  'Pierre,  you're  de 
weekedest  li'l  sinner  in  dat  whole  shantee.'  Den  I  cam 
up  by  de  frawnt,  an'  altogedder  queek  lak,  I  feel  so 
good.  I  feel  lak  I  got  a  pleasant  pain  all  oder  mysalf. 
Dass  so.  My  waf  can  tol'  you  how  weeked  I  was.  Oh, 
my  poor  waf,"  suddenly  breaking  off  and  shaking  his 
head  dolefully  as  he  thought  of  her  unconverted  state. 
"  ^ly  waf,  she  no  cam  here.  I  ax  her  why  she  no  cam 
wid  ;//r,  an'  she  ax  me  raght  off  queek  lak,  *  I  got  to 
iron  dcm  clo'es.'     Oh,  my  poor  waf,  my  poor  waf  !" 

Overcome  with  his  emotion  he  sat  down,  and  Mr. 
Springle,  possibly  fearing  a  repetition,  invited  some  of 
the  older  members  to  give  their  experience. 

Mrs.  Farley  arose  to  her  feet,  sniffling  in  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  went  on  to  tell  what  the  Lord  had  done 
for  her.  She  wanted  it  understood  that  it  was  no  cross, 
but  a  blessed  privilege,  for  her  to  testify  for  Jesus. 
He  had  taken  her  miserable  feet  from  the  mire  and  the 
clay,  and  had  placed  them  on  the  solid  Rock  of  Ages. 
How  he  ever  came  to  think  it  worth  while  to  save  her 
she  did  not  know,  but  she  felt  that  she  had  ofttimcs  tried 
his  patience  by  her  numerous  shortcomings.  She  con- 
cluded by  saying,  "  I'm  a  poor,  blind,  blunderin',  stum- 


r 


AN    OI.D-TIME    REVIVAL. 


141 


blin'  critter,  but  if  I  only  manage  to  stumble  into 
heaven,  it's — all — I'll — ask." 

After  several  others  had  spoken,  Prosper  again  took 
charge,  and  displayed  a  change  of  tactics  by  saying,  in 
a  subdued  tone: 

"  I  want  to  find  out  how  every  soul  in  this  house 
stands  to-night.  Some  of  you  appear  to  be  determined 
to  defy  the  Lord,  and  refuse  this  means  of  grace.  I 
can't  think  that  you  really  mean  this.  I  think  that 
some  of  you  hesitate  because  you  don't  quite  agree 
with  our  methods  of  conversion.  Some  of  you  prob'ly 
don't  believe  in  revivals.  I,  for  one,  do;  but  that  ain't 
no  reason  why  every  one  else  should,  and  I  want  to 
respect  the  religious  beliefs  of  all  of  you.  I  jest  have 
one  request  to  make.  It  is  a  very  simple  one,  and  I 
know  that  you  will  grant  it.  I  want  every  one  in  the 
house  who  believes  that  the  Lord  is  a  better  master 
than  the  devil  to  rise  to  their  feet — simply  stand  up. 
It  is  a  little  thing  to  do.     Everybody  rise." 

Everybody  did  rise,  converted  and  unconverted — 
except  Gabrielle.  She  sat  still  as  a  statue,  and  there 
was  an  awful  hush  over  the  congregation  as  they  saw 
it.  It  was  just  like  a  defiant  refutation  of  Providence. 
Prosper  stood  looking  impressively  straight  at  her. 
There  was  a  painful  suspense  for  the  moment. 

"  Please  be  seated,"  said  Prosper;  and  the  people  knew 
from  the  look  on  his  face  that  something  was  coming. 
"  I  wouldn't  have  believed,"  he  began,  "  that  we  had  any 
one  in  our  midst  who  would  openly  declare  that  they'd 
sooner  serve  the  devil  tiian  the  Lord!  This  is  awful! 
The  depths  of  human  depravity  are  deeper  than  I 
thought  they  were." 

Some  of  tlie  women  were  sobbing,  and  the  scene  was 


142 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


impressive.  Prosper,  with  his  eagle  eye  upon  Gabrielle, 
detected  a  change  coming  over  her  countenance.  **  She 
is  yielding  at  last,"  he  thought. 

**  I  will  give  one  more  chance  for  the  reclaiming  of 
this  lost  soul.  I  can  not  turn  her  over  to  perdition- 
without  another  effort,  and  I  ask  you  all  to  pray — and 
pray  as  if  your  own  souls  depended  on  it — while  I  give 
out  another  hymn." 

He  announced  the  hymn,  and  then  said,  slowly: 
"  While  we  are  singin'  this  hymn — this  last  hymn — we 
appeal  to  this  one  poor  waverin'  soul  to  come  forward. 
It  may  be  the  last  chance  this  side  of  eternity." 

When  the  congregation  rose  to  sing  Gabrielle  re- 
mained seated.  Prosper's  eyes  fairly  danced  for  joy. 
This  was  the  first  tangible  evidence  of  her  conviction. 

"  Glory  to  God!  Glory  to  God!  "  he  shouted.  "  The 
Spirit  is  workin'! " 

All  eyes  instinctively  turned  toward  Gabrielle  to  dis- 
cover the  reason  for  Prosper's  demonstration.  She 
reddened  more  and  more  under  the  scrutiny.  "  Glory  to 
God!  "  exclaimed  Prosper,  confident  of  victory.  '*  Satan 
isyieldin'.    Iknewit  must  come!    I  knew  it  must  come!" 

Gabrielle's  head  was  somewhat  bowed  to  hide  her 
face.  She  moved  slightly  on  her  seat.  The  people 
were  nerve-strung  and  breathless.  Some  were  hyster- 
ically weeping.  The  scene  was  reaching  a  climax. 
Gabrielle  moved  more  nervously  in  unison  with  Pros- 
per's exclamations.  She  partly  turned  on  her  seat. 
"  She  can't  hold  out  another  minute,"  said  Prosper  to 
himself,  and  as  if  in  answer  to  his  thought,  Gabrielle 
suddenly  rose  and  began  to  leave  her  seat. 

"  Glory  to  God!  "  shouted  Prosper.  "  Glory  to  God  in 
the  highest!     Glory!    Glory!    Glor — " 


T 


AN    OLD-TIME    REVIVAL. 


143 


Abruptly  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  word,  and 
the  people  turned  to  sec  the  cause.  Gabrielle  was 
walking  straight  toward  the  door,  and,  motioning  to 
Donald,  he  opened  it  for  her,  and  they  both  stepped 
out,  leaving  the  congregation  appalled. 


XVI. 

DONALD   AND  GABRIELLE, 

\\T  HEN  the  door  closed  behind  Donald  and  Gabrielle, 
*  ^  she  impulsively  took  his  arm,  and  they  started 
for  home,  Donald  was  instantly  transported  to  a  sev- 
enth heaven  more  radiant  than  that  described  l)y 
Prosper  in  his  most  imaginary  mood.  This  was  the 
first  time  that  Gabrielle  had  ever  taken  his  arm.  It 
was  the  first  spontaneous  act  of  hers  which  g-ave  him 
any  encouragement. 

'*  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it  all? "  asked  Gabrielle, 
after  they  had  walked  some  minutes  in  silence. 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  answered  Donald,  "and  won- 
dering how  it  was  you  didn't  stand  up  when  Mr.  Tryne 
said  that  about  the  Lord  and  the  devil.  I  stood  up 
willingly,  although  my  people  are  all  Presbyterians,  for 
I  saw  no  objections  to  that." 

"Neither  would  I  have  seen  any  objections  if  I 
thought  Prosper  meant  every  word  he  said,  and  if  I 
hadn't  seen  through  his  trick." 

"  His  trick?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well  now,  old  blindy,"  s!ie  retorted,  giving  his  arm 
a  little  pinch  which  sent  him  into  ecstasies,  "couldn't 
you  see  all  along  that  Prosper  has  been  determined  to 
convert  us  two?  He  was  bound  to  get  me,  anyhow," 
she  continued,  dropping  her  head  rather  quickly  as  she 
noticed  the  pointed  connection  she  had  just  made 
between  them,  "and  when  his  regular  plan  didn't  work 

(144) 


UONAI-n    AND    (lAl'.RIEI.LK. 


145 


I 


he  thought  up  something-  else.  Oh,  Prosper's  ciinnin', 
I  tell  you.  He  said  what  he  did  about  serving  the 
Lord  and  the  devil  thinking  I  couldn't  get  around 
that.  If  I  had  got  iip  then  he  would  have  gone  on 
with  a  lot  of  stuff  about  me  not  havin'  the  moral  cour- 
age to  face  Satan  openly,  and  he  would  have  made  as 
big  a  fool  of  himself  as  he  did  a  little  while  after,  when 
I  didn't  stand  up  when  they  went  to  vsing." 

"  Why,  you  seem  to  be  awful  hard  on  religion.  I 
think  that—" 

"No,  I'm  not.  I  don't  mean  it  in  that  way.  'Tain't 
so  much  the  religion  I  don't  like  as  it  is  some  of  the 
folks  that's  in  it.  Religion  is  all  right  enough,  but  it's 
got  into  the  hands  of  a  mighty  poor  set  around  the 
Nonquon  here.  Why,  jest  look  'em  over.  There's 
Prosper,  as  big  a  rascal  as  ever  lived — " 

*'  Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that,  Gabriclle,"  interposed  Don- 
ald, somewhat  shocked  at  Gabriellc's  estimate  of  the 
man  who  had  just  been  pleading  so  earnestly  for  the 
salvation  of  souls. 

"  W(3uldn't  say  that,  hey?  Well,  you  wouldn't  say  the 
truth  then,  that's  all.  Prosper  may  pull  the  wool  over 
the  eyes  of  other  folks  by  his  palaverin'  ways  in  the 
pulpit — and  I  will  admit  that  he  docs  seem  to  be  in 
earnest  while  he  is  there — but  I  can't  forget  jest  how 
tricky  he  is  at  other  times.  No-sirec;  Prosper's  a  fraud, 
and  you  can't  git  around  it." 

*'  But  Prosper  is  not  the  only  religious  person  around 
the  Nonquon.     They're  not  all  dishonest,  I  hope." 

**  No,   not   all   of   them.     There's   the"  minister,   Mr. ; 
Springle,  I  believe  he  is  an  honest  man,  and  means  all 
he  says." 

Donald  did   not  quite  fancy  this,  as  the  minister's 


lO 


140 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


name  had  been  coupled  with  Gabriclle's  by  the  gossips 
in  a  manner  somewhat  distiirV)injj  to  him.  They  had 
arj.'ued  in  a  remote  way  that  if  Gabrielle  were  only 
converted  it  might  result  in  a  material  sequence  as 
well  as  a  spiritual  one.  But  Gabrielle  was  oblivious  to 
Donald's  impressions,  and  went  on:  "  And  Mrs.  Tryne, 
if  ever  there  was  a  good  aan  she  is  one.  The  only 
fault  with  her  is  that  she  t.  ///  try  to  make  folks  believe 
that  Prosper  doesn't  really  mean  to  do  wrong  when  he 
cheats  other  people." 

"Well,  if  you  were  married  to  a  man  like  that 
wouldn't  you  do  the  same  thing?  " 

"I  wouldn't  be  married  to  a  man  like  that,"  snapped 
Gabrielle. 

"But  you  can't  always  tell  beforehand.  If  you  got 
to  like  a  man  and  married  him,  and  then  found  (nit 
afterward  that  he  wasr't  what  you  expected,  wouldn't 
you  stick  up  for  him  bofo-^    ^olks? " 

"  Course  I  would.  I'd  "jst  big  enough  fool  to  do 
that.  I'd  tell  lies  for  him,  or  anything.  That's  the  way 
with  us  women.  We  don't  know  anything,  and  never 
will — 'specially  when  it  comes  to  thinkin'  about  the 
men.  D'you  know  what  I'd  do  if  I  was  a  man  and  had 
a  good  woman? "  she  asked,  suddenly  changing  her  tone. 

"  No." 

"Well,  I'd  use  her  a  good  sight  better'n  most  men 
do  their  wives." 

"Why?" 

"  'Cause  she'd  deserve  it.  Women  don't  have  too 
good  a  time  in  this  world,  anyhow." 

"Why,  I  thought  you  always  had  a  pretty  good 
time,"  said  Donald,  rather  surprised  at  Gabrielle's  mood. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  she  said,  with  a  return  to  her  old 


DONALD    AND    (; AHRIKI.I.p:. 


147 


as 


ve 


mischievous  spirit,  **  /  ain't  married.  And,  anyhow,  T 
don't  have  half  as  good  a  time  as  I  could  if  I  was  a  boy. 
A  girl  can't  do  the  first  thing  with  a  little  fun  in  it  but 
what  she's  called  a  tom-boy.  I'm  sick  of  always  bein' 
held  down  's  if  I  was  a  dummy  or  an  idiot.  If  folks 
only  knowed  it,  a  girl  can  cut  up  and  have  some  fun 
and  yet  behave  herself."- 

*'  Well,  I'm  sure  I  never  knew  that  you  were  held 
down  very  much,"  said  Donald. 

'*  I  ain't  held  down  half  so  much  as  I  would  be  if  it 
wasn't  for  father.  He  seems  to  know  jest  what  I  like 
better'n  anybody  else,  and  he  lets  me  do  a  little  bit  as  I 
want  to.  He  ain't  pesterin'  the  life  out  of  me  all  the 
time  about  bein'  a  heathen,  and  I'd  do  more  for  him 
this  minute  than  anybody  else,  jest  because  he  gives 
me  a  little  peace.  He's  the  best  man  ever  lived,  any- 
way," she  added,  with  emphasis.  "  Talk  about  your 
religious  people.  Why,  there's  father,  who  never  goes 
to  meetin'  at  all,  and  yet  I'd  take  his  word  sooner'n  I 
would  any  of  the  church  folks.  He'd  cut  off  his  right 
hand  before  he  would  do  anything  wrong.  And  there's 
Philander  Hunt,  catch  him  doin'  a  mean  thing!  No- 
siree.  Oh,  I  tell  you  when  you  come  to  compare  the 
religious  folks  around  here  with  the  ones  that  don't 
make  any  claim  to  religion,  it's  enough  to  make  a  person 
sick  of  the  name  of  a  church." 

'*  I  hope  you  don't  quite  mean  that." 

"  No,  I  don't  s'pose  I  do,"  she  answered,  more 
thoughtfully.  "  I  told  you  before  that  it  wasn't 
religion  itself  that  I  didn't  care  for — it  was  the  folks." 

The  night  was  snapping  cold,  and  the  two  were 
walking  along  with  bowed  heads  facing  the  wind.  The 
snow  creaked  under  their  feet  at  each  step,  and  made 


\ 


148 


THE    HERMIT    ()!■     IHE    NoNcjUON. 


almost  the  only  sound  they  heard.  All  about  them  the 
seene  was  quiet,  and  it  was  the  kind  of  night  which 
made  companionship  a  comfort.  It  was  peculiarly  so 
to  Donald.  He  had  never  walked  in  this  way  with 
Gabriellc  before,  and  she  had  never  talked  so  freely  to 
him.  It  was  a  new  experience  to  have  her  so  near  him, 
and  to  be  told  so  frankly  her  sentiments  on  the  several 
important  topics  that  had  come  up.  It  was  like  taking- 
him  into  he:  confidence,  he  thought.  Donald  counted 
it  the  most  delightful  experience  he  had  ever  known, 
and  was  just  conjecturing  as  to  the  likelihood  of  any 
future  opportunities  like  this  arising  for  his  benefit, 
when  Gabrielle  rather  startled  him  by  looking  up  into 
his  face  and  suddenly  a.sking: 

*'  What  are  you  thinking  about?  " 

"  I — well,  I  was  just  thinking  that — that  this  is  the 
last  night  of  the  meetings,"  he  answered,  rather  con- 
fused.  • 

"And  feeling  bad  because  I  didn't  git  converted,  I 
s'pose? " 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that." 

"Well,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I — was  just  thinking — was  just  wondering — "  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  Gabrielle  said,  "  Wondering 
what? " 

"  Wondering  when  I'd  be  likely  to  see  you  again." 

"  Well,  you'll  be  likely  to  see  me  whenever  3'ou 
happen  to  be  in  the  same  place  as  I  am."  She  said  this 
with  an  attempt  at  her  usual  repartee;  but  somehow 
it  did  not  seem  congenial  to  her  mood  to-night.  She 
would  have  had  something  unenviable  in  her  nature  if 
she  were  not  affected  more  or  less  by  the  scenes  at  the 
meeting,  and  though  Prosper's  words  had  done  little 


DONALD    AND    GABRIELLE. 


149 


else  than  to  incense  her,  yet  the  whole  occurrence  had 
left  its  impression  upon  her,  and  somehow  softened  her. 

"Donald,"  she  said,  more  quietly,  "I  don't  feel  like 
joking  or  saying  anything  mean  to  you  to-night.  I 
usually  can— but  not  to-night.  I  feel  different  toward 
you  someway— oh,  here's  our  gate,"  suddenly  turning 
in,  "and  I'm  glad  of  it,  for  I'd  be  saying  something 
foolish  if  I  didn't  look  out.     Well,  good-night." 

"Hold  on,"  said  Donald,  as  he  saw  her  hurrying 
toward  the  door. 

"Good-night!"  she  cried,  as  she  darted  inside. 

"Well,  she  beats  all,"  said  the  Scotch  boy  to  himself, 
walking  away.     "  I  can't  keep  track  of  her  at  all." 

But  on  the  whole  he  was  pleased  with  that  night's 
experience.  She  had  said  things  to  him  that  she  never 
had  before,  and  she  had  acted  in  a  way  altogether  new. 
The  query  was:  Would  she  be  the  same  when  he  saw 
her  again? 


XVII. 
THE  COUNTRY  TAVERN. 


T  N  those  days  the  railroad  which  now  runs  through 
■*•  the  Nonquon  district  was  not  dreamed  of,  and  all 
the  marketing  had  to  be  done  over  the  wagon-roads. 
Most  of  the  grain  raised  in  that  vicinity,  and  for  miles 
north  of  it,  was  hauled  to  Port  Rowen  in  winter;  and 
between  the  farmers  and  the  shantymen  the  roads 
were  kept  pretty  lively  all  through  sleighing.  At  short 
intervals  along  the  road  small  taverns  were  located, 
each  bearing  the  suggestive  sign  over  the  door, 
'*  Licensed  to  sclliviiu\  beer,  and  other  spirituous  liquors." 
They  were  supported  mostly  by  droppers-in  on  their 
way  to  and  from  market.  Jerry's  tavern  at  the  Non- 
quon was  quite  a  resort,  and  many  a  noisy  crowd  has 
spent  a  winter  evening  in  his  bar-room. 

One  night  shortly  after  the  revival  a  larger  crowd 
than  usual  assembled  there.  It  had  been  a  busy  day 
in  Port  Rowen;  a  large  quantity  of  grain  had  been  sold, 
and  much  money  paid  to  the  farmers.  The  teams  were 
sent  vSpinning  toward  home  after  the  business  was 
finished  in  town,  and  the  distance  between  the  "Port" 
and  Jerry's  was  considered  sufficient  to  call  for  a  lialt 
at  the  latter  place,  for  the  purpose  of  "  gittin"  some- 
thing hot  to  drink." 

A  rather  brisk  acquaintance  had  been  made  with  the 
tumbler  and  the  mug  before  Port  Rowen  was  aban- 
doned, and  by  the  time  the  Nonquon  was  reached  the 

(150) 


THE   COUNTRY   TAVERN. 


161 


horses  were  steaming-  from  reckless  driving.  In  this 
condition  they  were  brought  up  with  a  sudden  turn 
into  Jerry's  shed,  and  left  standing — with  or  without  a 
blanket,  as  happened  to  suit  the  mood  of  the  driver — 
till  all  hours  of  the  night. 

"  Better  take  in  your  whip,"  said  B'gob-sir  to  a 
sleigh-load  of  young  fellows  who  had  just  driven  up, 
"  or  somebody'll  likely  steal  it." 

"Oh,  devil  take  the  whip,"  was  the  offhand  reply,  as 
they  sauntered  toward  the  bar-room. 

"  Well,"  muttered  the  hostler  to  himself,  "  I  didn't 
edsackly  say  Jie'd  take  it,  but  somebody  else  prob'ly 
will.  'Tain't  none  o'  my  bread  and  butter,  though. 
Hello,  Dougald,  how  are  y^u? "  he  called  out,  as  old 
Dougald  McLaughlan  came  along  with  a  very  ill-kept 
team.  Dougald  was  the  farmer  to  whom  the  Widow 
McFarlane  had  sent  Donald  to  borrow  some  pea-straw 
when  she  wanted  to  cover  her  turnip-pit.  To-night  he 
had  not  progressed  far  enough  yet  in  his  libations  to 
make  him  sociable.  It  took  a  good  deal  in  those  days  to 
warm  up  a  big  Scotch  farmer,  and  the  liquor  drank  at 
Port  Rowen  had  been  sufficient  only  to  create  a  desire 
for  more,  so  that  he  was  rather  glum;  and  in  answer 
to  B'gob-sir's  salutation  he  merely  gave  an  unintelli- 
g-ible  grunt,  and  clambered  out  of  his  sleigh  to  tie  his 
horses. 

"  Purty  lively  day  down  to  the  Port,"  again  ventured 
B'gob-sir.  Another  grunt,  as  the  Scotchman  fumbled 
about  the  harness. 

"  Guess  you  didn't  git  a  very  high  figure  for  your 
barley,  did  you? "  said  the  hostler,  slightly  nettled, 
**  though  I  heard  that  grain  was  purty  well  up  to-day." 

"Come  and   have  a  drink,"  was  the  irrelevant  but 


153 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


agreeable  reply,  as  the  horses  were  tied.  B'gob-sir 
said  not  another  word,  but  they  both  started  toward 
the  tavern.  What  a  world  of  diseord  that  expression 
has  quieted  in  the  history  of  the  human  race.  And 
what  a  world  of  discord  it  has  created. 

The  occupants  of  the  bar-room  were  beginning  to 
get  noisy.  Young  fellows  whose  only  claim  to  dis- 
tinction lay  in  their  ability  to  steer  a  plow  clear  of 
stones  and  stumps  in  summer,  or  successfully  bind  a 
load  of  logs  on  a  sleigh  in  winter,  made  a  boisterous 
show  of  their  manliness  by  tossing  off  frequent  glasses 
of  liquor.  The  older  ones  drank,  not  for  show,  but 
because  they  liked  it. 

"Hello,  Dune!  Just  in  time.  Come  on  and  have 
something."  This  was  said  to  a  young  man  who  had 
sauntered  in. 

"  No,  I  don't  care  for  anything  to-night." 

"  Well,  what  the  h — 1  are  you  here  for,  then,  if  you 
don't  want  to  drink?  " 

"  Oh,  I  just  strolled  in  to  see  what  was  goin'  on."  A 
motive  which  takes  young  men  to  the  tavern  as  well 
as  to  the  church.  The  greatest  drawback  to  country 
life  for  young  people  is  lack  of  companionship.  It 
drives  them  to  seek  diversions  not  always  to  their 
benefit. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what's  the  matter  with  you.  The  per- 
tacted  meetin'  has  jest  been  goin'  on,  and  I  hear  they 
come  near  gettin'  you  up  to  the  bench.  How  about 
that,  Dune?  Didn't  you  ask  'em  to  pray  for  you  one 
night?" 

To  admit  a  weakness  of  this  kind  in  the  bar-room 
was  to  cause  as  great  a  loss  of  caste  for  the  individual 
as  to  admit  in  church  that  hg  was  in  the  habit  of  drink- 


THF,    COUNTRY    TWIRN. 


l.-)3 


hvy  liquor.  A  virtue  in  one  place  was  a  vice  in  the 
other. 

"  Not  much  I  didn't,"  said  Dune,  with  some  spirit. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  own  up." 

The  crowd  began  to  laugh  at  Dune's  expense. 

"  I  hain't  got  anything  to  own,  I  tell  ytni.  I  went  to 
tlic  meetin's  same's  other  folks,  but  I  didn't  go  up  to 
the  bench — not  by  a  long  shot." 

"  Wanted  to  go  bad  enough,  though,  I  guess.  Been 
there  long  before  this  if  you  wasn't  afraid  the  boys 
would  make  fun  of  you.  Honest,  now,  didn't  you  ask 
*em  to  pray  for  you?" 

This  was  wit  of  a  high  order,  and  it  caused  a  roar. 

"See  here,  you  fellers  think  you're  almighty  smart, 
don't  you?  I  ain't  any  nearer  bein'  converted  than  the 
rest  of  you.  I  guess  I'm  not  quite  so  big  a  fool  as  that 
yet." 

"  Well,  then,  come  and  have  a  drink  with  us,  why 
don't  you?  If  you're  goin'  to  be  one  o'  the  boys  you've 
got  to  drink." 

Dune  evidently  concluded  to  be  one  of  the  boys,  for 
he  stepped  up  to  the  bar  and  ordered  his  liquor  with 
the  others.  Before  the  night  was  over  he  had  forgotten 
any  of  the  good  resolutions  that  he  might  possibly  have 
made  during  the  revival.  If  Prosper  had  been  there 
he  would  probably  have  said:  "The  devil  is  mighty 
•  quick  to  take  hold  as  soon  as  the  Lord  lets  go." 

B'gob-sir's  comment  on  the  occasion  was  to  the  effect 
that  "  That  last  lot  o'  whisky  Jerry  got  in  was  a  leetlc 
bit  worse  than  anything  he  had  struck  yet." 

"  How  is  it  you  drink  so  much  of  it,  then? "  some  one 
asked. 

"Jest  tj  keep  it  from  spoilin'.     Why,  b'gob-sir,  that 


154 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


last  drink  I  took  wouldn't  'a'  lasted  till  to-morrow 
mornin'.  It  would  'a'  been  too  weak  by  that  time  to 
run  out  of  the  bottle." 

'*  Then  you  simply  drink  it  to  keep  Jerry  from  losing 
it,  hey?  " 

"  Jest  the  p'int — jest  the  p'int  edsackly.  Wouldn't 
drink  it  on  no  other  account.  I  don't  like  licker  very 
well,  anyhow,"  he  added,  confidentially.  "  Wouldn't 
touch  a  drop,  only  to  be  sociable." 

"  Who  were  you  being  sociable  with  the  other  morn- 
ing when  I  f(jund  you  in  here  behind  the  bar  alone, 
before  the  rest  of  the  folks  were  up? "  asked  Jerry,  with 
a  wink  to  the  others. 

"  Well  now,  Jerry,  that's  all  right.  I  jest  wanted  to 
do  a  little  cleanin'  up  in  there — say,  do  you  know,  Jerry, 
that  you  keep  about  the  dirtiest  bar  of  any  one  in  four- 
teen ord'nary  townships?  Why,  b'gob-sir,  I'm  'shamed 
of  It  half  the  time.     When  I  tended  bar  down  in — " 

"  You  tended  bar!  "  derisively  interposed  the  young 
fcUow  who  had  previously  in  the  evening  commended 
his  whip  to  the  care  of  his  satanic  majesty.  "  You  tended 
bar!     When  did  you  ever  tend  bar,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"  My  sonny,"  answered  the  hostler,  suddenly  chang- 
ing his  tone  to  a  suave,  patronizing  air,  "  I  tended  bar 
before  you  was  bigger'n  a  half  a  pint  o'  cider  all  drunk 
up.  I  tended  bar  before  you  had  started  to  grow  your 
pin-feathers — before  you — before  you'd  pecked  any  at 
your  shell.  Why,  b'gob-sir,"  he  continued,  warming  up, 
"  when  I  was  your  age  I  knowed  more  in  a  minute 
than  a  yoke  of  oxen  weighin'  fifty  hundred  could  tramp 
into  your  skull  in  a  month  o'  Saturday  nights.  You 
think  you're  mighty  smart,  my  boy,  but  let  me  tell  5'ou, 
if  you're  ever  goin'  to  know  enough  to  chaw  second- 


THE    COUNTRY    TAVERN. 


155 


t 


handed  gum  you've  got  to  begin  to  learn  right  off. 
Wlien  the  Lord  made  you,  I  guess  the  devil  was  around 
botherin'  him  a  good  deal,  for  he  made  a  mighty  poor 
job." 

"  Well,  you  must  'a'  been  a  h — 1  of  a  feller  when  you 
was  my  age,"  said  the  youth,  trying  to  turn  the  laugh 
that  followed  B'gob-sir's  tirade. 

"  No,  I'd  'a'  been  too  much  like  you  if  I  was." 

"  If  you  was  my  age  now  you'd  take  that  back," 
replied  the  yoimg  fellow,  bristling  up. 

"  Would  I?  I  ain't  in  the  takin'  back  bizness.  And 
more'n  that,  when  I  was  your  age  I  could  'a'  licked  a 
meetin'-house  full  o'  you.  Why,  b'gob-sir,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  the  crowd,  and  waving  his  hand  out  over 
them  to  make  his  remarks  general — from  a  possible 
fear  that  he  was  getting  into  too  close  quarters  with 
the  angry  youth.  "Why,  b'gob-sir,  folks  don't  know 
anything  about  fightin'  these  days.  When  I  was  a 
young  feller  we  thought  nothin'  o'  fightin'  all  night 
long,  hard  as  we  could  pelt.  And  you  couldn't  lick  a 
man  then  either.  •  You  could  pound  him  all  to  pieces, 
but  you  couldn't  lick  him.  He'd  never  give  up  as 
long  as  he  could  lift  a  finger,  or  swear  at  you.  Oh, 
them  was  the  days  for  fun,  though." 

The  old  fellow  probably  had  never  been  in  a  contest 
of  any  kind  except  with  his  perpetual  enemy,  alcohol, 
but  this  description  of  these  fictitious  encounters  did 
him  as  much  good  as  if  they  had  been  real.  In  this 
instance  it  also  served  him  a  good  turn,  for  it  drew 
upon  him  the  attention  of  the  crowd,  and  prevented 
any  further  wrangle  with  the  liquor-laden  young  fellow, 
who  had  been  incensed  by  his  remarks,  and  might  so 
far  have  forgotten  himself  as  to  strike  him. 


156 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


The  talk  now  became  general  on  the  one  grand  theme 
of  personal  prowess.  It  was  always  so  at  these  carousals. 
No  matter  what  was  talked  of  in  the  early  part  of  the 
evening,  the  conversation  always  drifted  around,  as  the 
liquor  began  its  work,  to  the  subject  of  fighting.  Man 
is  essentially  a  boaster  when  he  h  full — or  partially  full 
— of  whisky,  and  every  man  thinks  he  can  whip  every 
other  man.  Words  grew  loud,  hands  waved,  money 
flew,  and  whisky  gurgled  in  the  throats  of  men  who 
would  be  sorry  to-morrow.  The  atmosphere  was  filled 
with  the  aroma  of  steaming  liquor,  while  the  conversa- 
tion ran  largely  into  boasting  and  exaggeration. 

"  I  can  lick  any  man  in  the  Nonquon." 

"  You  couldn't  lick  a  mouse  if  its  tail  was  tied  behind 
its  back." 

A  general  roar. 

"  I've  fought  since  I  was  knee-high  to  a  grasshopper, 
and  I  never  got  a  whippin'  yet." 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurt  any  of  you  fellers,  but  hx^k  out 
how  you're  shovin'  us  around  here." 

"  Oh,  you  put  on  a  tin  duster  if  you're  so  'fraid  o' 
gittin'  smashed." 

"  No  use  talkin',  Vyegot  to  fight  some  one.      Whoop!'' 

"  You  fight!  You've  done  most  o'  your  fightin'  with 
your  feet,  I  guess.  You'd  run  like  a  deer  if  any  one 
said  *boo'  to  you." 

"  Come  and  have  a  drink." 

"  Hurrah,  boys!     Come  and  have  a  drink." 

A  general  rush  to  the  bar,  bottles  slammed  on  the 
counter,  glasses  clinked,  money  thrown  over  the  bar, 
little  heed  given  to  the  change,  and  the  change  seldom 
of  the  correct  amount.  A  familiar  slap  on  the  back, 
with  a  return  attempt  to  knock  off  a  hat.     A  loud  guffaw 


r^k 


THE    COUNTRV    TAVERN. 


157 


ringing  above  the  others;  a  good  deal  of  swearing,  a 
maudlin  embrace,  a  surging,  jostling,  grinning,  clamor- 
ous crowd.     These  men  are  kings — and  fools. 

Old  Dougald  McLaughlan  had  been  consistently  stick- 
ing to  gin  all  the  evening,  and  had  at  last  got  warmed 
up.  He  was  red  in  the  face,  and  still  steaming.  When 
the  pugilistic  talk  rose  to  its  height,  he  straightened 
himself  up  and,  with  an  awkward  gyration  of  his  hand 
peculiar  to  his  race,  exclaimed: 

"  I'm  sexty-four  years  of  old,  an'  I  naver  ficght 
alraady,  but  gi'  me  a  mon  o'  my  own  old  and  my  own 
haavy,  and  let  him  strike  mc — I'll  get  up  again,  and  I'll 
strike  him,  an'  he'll  naver  rise." 

This  caused  another  roar,  and  the  general  remark: 
**  Dougald,  you'll  have  to  set  np  the  drinks  for  that." 

Dougald  interpreted  this  as  a  compliment,  and 
acquiesced.  Old  B'gob-sir  was  standing  near  the  vSc(;tch- 
man  at  the  time,  and  through  mistake  got  hold  of  the 
gin-bottle.  He  poured  some  out  and  took  a  great 
swallow,  and  then  began  dancing  around  and  spitting 
violently. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  asked  one  of  the 
crowd,  laughing. 

"What  in  the" — spit— "  what  in  the  d-d-devil's  in 
that  bottle? " 

"Gin." 

"  For  God's  sake  "—spit—"  for  God's  sake,  gi'  me  "— 
spit — "gi'  me  some  whisky  to  take  the  taste  out  o'  my 
mouth,  quick!  Thai's  the  pizenest  stuff  I  ever  put  intc; 
my  throat.     Ugh!     (ii'  mc  some  whisky." 

"Thought  that  last  lot  o'  whisky  I  got  in  was  the 
worst  you'd  struck,"  .said  Jerry,  with  a  laugh. 

"Well,  it's  milk  and  molasses  beside  that  gin.     Dou- 


158 


THK  HKRMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


gald,  how'n  thunder  do  yoii  ever  rnanag-c  to  swaller  " — 
spit — "  swaller  that  sickcnin*  stuff?  It's  worse'n  pep- 
pc>ry  dish-water  mixed  with  the  drippin's  poured  off'n 
b'iled  snakes." 

"  Humph!"  ejaeulated  the  Scotchman.  '"Gen  I  tuk 
a  mouthful  o'  yon  whusky,  I'd  need  to  do  more'n  spui. 
I'd  ha'  to  rub  my  tongue  wi'  a  coarse  file." 

*' '  T  wouldn't  do  any  petic'lar  harm  to  put  a  file  on 
your  tongue,  anyway,"  said  B'gob-sir.  "  It's  thick 
enough,  God  knows." 

"  Theck!     Theck,  you  say—" 

And  instantly  they  were  in  a  j angle  of  words. 

"  Here,  yon  two  old  duffers,  stop  quarrclin'.  Yon 
couldn't  cither  one  of  you  strike  a  barn  door  if  you  was 
leanin'  up  agin'  it.  Le's  have  a  drink."  This  was 
enough.  The  two  belligerents  were  soon  embracing 
each  other  in  a  friendly  jabber  over  the  bar. 

There  was  an  end  to  that  night,  as  there  is  to  all 
others.  The  last  state  of  those  in  Jerry's  bar-room  was 
worse  than  the  first,  but — they  had  Imd  a  "good  time." 


XVIII. 
A   TRIP   TO   FRASER'vS    CREEK. 

((  pHILANDER,  you  promised  to  take  mc  up  Fra- 
"'■      ser's  Creek  sometime,"  said  Gabriclleone  day  as 

she  met  Philander  midway  between  her  home  and  the 

village. 

"  If  to-morrow  is  a  fine  day,  you  put  on  your  mocca- 
sins and  snow-shoes,  and  I'll  take  you — that  is,  if  your 

mother  is  will  in'." 

"  Oh,  she'll  be  willin' — if  vShe  doesn't  know  anything 

about  it,"  answered  Gabrielle,  with  mischief  in  her  eye. 
"  vScc  here,  old  girl,  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  agree 

to   that   or   not.     What   do  you   suppose   your   father 

would  say? " 

"  He'd  let  me  go  in  a  minute,"  she  exclaimed,  with 

assurance.     "  I'll    ask    him    if    you    say    so.     Father's 

always  sensible  about  anything  I  want  to  do,  and  he 

wouldn't  say  a  w.:»rd  against  it  so  long  as  he  knew  you 

was  with  me." 

"Well,  if  you're  sure  about  that,  I  guess  we'll  go." 

"  Must  I  say  anything  to  father  about  it?" 

"  Oh,  .suit  your.self,     I'll  leave  that  to  you,  but  I  think 

you'd  better  ask  him." 

"All  right,  I'll  suit  myself,  and — I  won't  ask  him." 
"Gabe,   yoti're    a   minx.     Anything  to   bo   contrary. 

Why   is  it  you   are   always    takin'   the   opposite   side 

aeainst  me? " 


((  »  r^ 


Cause  I  like  you." 


(159) 


KJO 


THK    HKRMIT    OF    TIIF,    NONQUON. 


"  Is  that  the  reason  you  act  so  contrary  witli — " 

"  rinlandcr!  " 

'*  I  \v(m't  say  another  word,"  as  he  wheeled  on  liis 
heel  and  walked  away. 

They  had  a  j^-reat  tramp  the  followini^  day.  The  snow 
was  deep,  but  that  did  not  interfere  with  them;  in  fact 
it  added  immensely  to  their  satisfacticm,  as  they  were 
able,  with  their  snow-shoes,  to  cnt  across  fields,  and 
walk  along  the  drifts  and  over  fences  without  any 
obstruction.  There  is  a  sense  of  supremacy  in  treadinj^' 
on  snow-shoes,  when  the  landscape  is  thickly  coated  with 
the  white  yicldini;  mass  which  renders  travel  by  any 
other  means  almost  impossible.  It  is  somethiui-;'  akin  to 
walkiui;-  on  the  water;  the  drifts  are  like  immense  swells, 
the  hollows  like  troughs.  A  misstep  with  the  snow- 
shoes  on  the  brow  of  a  drift  means  a  collapse,  after  the 
manner  of  a  plunijfe  in  the  sea,  while  the  novice  is 
about  as  helpless  on  land  as  he  would  be  i:i  the  water. 
But  Philander  and  (labrielle  were  not  novices,  and  we 
have  no  tumbles  to  record  on  this  trip. 

"  Gabe,  rve.i>"ot  scnncthinj^  to  .say  to  you  to-day,  and 
I  want  you  to  listen.     Will  you?" 

''  Depends." 

"  Depends  on  what?  " 

"On  what  you  got  to  say." 

"  No,  that  won't  do.  I  want  you  tn  promise  me  that 
you  will  hear  me  out." 

"  Did  I  ever  refuse  to  hen* 

"  No,  but  you've  r-      m 
times." 

"That's   jest  v  i  u  . 

anything  you've  n     busin<  ^s  to." 

"Well,  I  don't  s'puse  it    v  any  of  my  business,"  he  said, 


m.'' 


»~ 


rack  a  good  many 
,1  if  you  begin  to  say 


\\ 


iim» 


A    TRIP    TO    IRASlk  S    CREEK. 


101 


more  reflectively,  **and  yet  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  about  it." 

"Well,  if  I  need  it,  you'd  better  talk." 

She  was  scarcely  in  the  mood  to  suit  Philander,  but 
he  despaired  of  ever  finding  her  in  a  better  one,  so  he 
bciji'an,  somewhat  awkwardly: 

"  A  jjirl  has  ^ot  to  marry  sometime,  hasn't  she? " 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"  Well,  but  all  the  best  p^irls  do  marry." 

"  Don't  know  about  that." 

"  Now  sec  here,  Gabc,  you  know  you'll  marry,  and 
that's  what  I'm  tryin'  to  j^-it  at.  You're  the  hardest  j^irl 
to  talk  to  I  ever  struck." 

"Good  heavens!"  thoui^htGabrielle,  somewhat  startlc(]. 
"I  wonder  if  he  is  ^oin^L>-  to  ask  me  to  marry  liim!  I 
wouldn't  hurt  Philander's  feelings  for  the  world,  but — " 

"What  I  was  goin'  to  say,"  continued  Philander,  "is 
that  I've  been  watchin*  you  for  some  time  now,  and  I 
think  you  need  some  one  to  give  you  a  little  advice." 

"What  in  the  world  is  he  gittin'  at?"  was  Gabriclle's 
puzzled  reflection. 

"A  girl  may  go  on  actin'  jest  as  you  do  a  little  too 
long,  and  when  she  wakes  up  she  may  find  she's  waked 
up  too  late." 

"  Surely  he  isn't  going  to  preach  to  me  like  Prosper 
does,"  she  thought. 

They  were  walking  along  side  by  side,  and  Philander 
glanced  at  Gabriclle's  face  to  sec  how  she  was  taking 
it.     His  first  reflection  was: 

"  Lord  a  massy,  what  a  perty  creature  she  is!  Think 
I  never  seen  her  look  so  han'some  before."  His  next 
thought  he  gave  expression  to. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  something?  " 

"  Hain't  got  anything  to  say." 
11 


&  i 


1G2 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


,;|: 


"  Well,  but  a  feller'd  natii'ally  expect  something  from 
you.     Never  seen  you  so  still  before." 

"  Disappointed  because  I  didn't  run  you  off  the  track, 
hey? " 

"  No,  not  that.  But  I  jest  want  to  know  if  you  don't 
think  there's  some  danger  of  a  girl  wakin'  up  too  late?  " 

**  Not  when  her  father  has  to  have  an  early  breakfast 
to  go  to  the  shanty." 

"Oh  pshaw!     Now,  Gabe,  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  That's  jest  what  I  don't  know." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  know  what  I'm 
drivin'  at? "  he  asked,  looking  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  Of  course  I  don't.'"     And  he  saw  she  meant  it. 

"Well!  "  he  ejaculated,  "I  s'pose  I  am  an  old  blun- 
derer, bvit  I  thought  surely  you'd  see  that  I  meant  the 
way  you  was  actin'  with  Donald." 

Suddenly,  in  spite  of  herself,  a  bright  light  filled  her 
eyes. 

"  Then  the  thought  of  marryin'  me  never  entered  his 
blessed  old  head,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Philander  caught  sight  of  her  changed  expression, 
and  interpreted  it  to  his  satisfaction,  but  her  next  words 
were  disappointing. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  could  see  that,  for  I  wasn't 
aware  that  I  had  been  actin'  at  all  with  him." 

*'  That's  jest  the  trouble.  You  don't  act  as  you'd 
ought  to." 

"  Well,  maybe  I  could  git  some  one  who  would  tell 
me  how  I  ought  to  act,"  she  said,  with  some  sarcasm. 

"  Oh,  now,  Gabe,  don't  you  git  mad  at  me.  You  and 
I  have  always  been  the  best  of  friends,  and  we  ain't 
goin'  to  quarrel  now.  I  didn't  mean  to  interfere  with 
your  affairs  at  all,  and  mebbe  I've  said  more'n  I  had 


A    TRIP    TO    FRASER  S   CRKIiK. 


lo;} 


any  business  to,  but  somehow  I  think  a  good  deal  of 
both  you  and  Donald,  and  I  didn't  like  the  idea  of  him 
takin'  up  with  that  Scotch  girl." 

"  W/iat  Scotch  girl? " 

Ah,  Gabrielle,  you  arc  caught  this  time.  No  mistak- 
ing that  tone  and  look.  Philander  is  not  so  bad  an  old 
blunderer  as  he  has  given  himself  credit  for,  and  that 
one  sudden  outburst  has  satisfied  him.  It  is  his  turn  to 
tantalize  now.     He  answered  in  a  vslow,  provoking  way: 

*'  Oh,  I  don't  know's  I  could  mention  any  ojie  Scotch 
girl  in  partic'lar,  but  I  had  an  idea  that  a  level-headed 
young  chap  like  Donald  would  naturally  begin  to  look 
around  among  the  Scotch  girls  for  a  wife,  when  he 
couldn't  git  any  encouragement  some  place  else.  He'd 
be  a  fool  if  he  didn't.  I  wouldn't  stand  it  a  minute  to 
be  used  as  mean  as  you've  used  him." 

She  slipped  up  to  Philander's  side  and  pinched  his 
arm.  "  I'll  use  him  meaner'n  ever  next  time  I  see  him," 
she  said,  with  a  roguish  expression  on  her  face. 

"  I'll  resk  it,"  answered  Philander,  confidently.  Again 
she  gave  his  arm  a  vicious  little  pinch,  and  continued 
walking  close  beside  him.  Her  face  was  redder  than 
the  wind  could  make  it,  and  her  eye  was  aglow  with  a 
new  light.  vShe  looked  more  beautiful  than  ever,  Phi- 
lander thought.  But  snow-shoes  were  not  made  for 
such  close  companionship,  and  she  caught  hers  in  the 
side  of  his  and  nearly  fell.  He  seized  her  arm  in  time 
to  save  her,  and  remarked: 

"  That's  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you  trip,  Gabc." 

"Well,  I'm  makin*  a  perfect  fool  of  myself,  anyway, 
to-day.  I  don't  know  what  ails  me — and — and  it's  all 
your  fault,"  she  said,  with  some  confusion. 

"  No,  Gabe,  you're  not  makin'  a   fool  of  yourself — 


m 

iiiiii 


li^li. 


1G4 


THE    IIF.RMIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


you're  makin'  a  woman  of  yourself.  And  I  jest  want 
U)  remark  that  that  woman  will  be  the  sweetest,  the 
pertiest,  the  finest,  and  the  best  woman  on  top  of  this 
hull  earth." 

"  Now  stop  that,  Philander,  or  I'll  have  tt)  run  you  off 
the  track." 

"  Well,  there's  one  track  you  can't  run  me  away  from, 
for  here  we  are  right  along  by  the  edge  of  the  creek, 
and  there's  only  one  track  to  take." 

In  an  instant  she  was  on  the  alert.  "  I  thought  you 
said  this  was  such  a  rough  place,"  she  remarked,  look- 
ing ahead. 

"  You  ain't  into  the  worst  of  it  yet,  and  anyhow  you 
must  remember  there's  lots  of  snow  on  the  ground  and 
we're  on  snow-shoes.  If  you  tackled  this  in  summer  or 
when  there  was  only  a  few  inches  of  snow,  you'd  sing  a 
different  tune." 

"  Oh  pshaw,  I  could  go  through  as  rough  a  place  as 
you." 

"I  don't  know  but  what  you  could,  Gabe,"  admitted 
Philander,  as  lie  jumped  down  from  a  big  mound  of 
snow  formed  by  a  fallen  log,  and  saw  Gabriclle  spring 
lightly  after  him. 

The  sun  had  been  shining  brightly  all  morning,  and 
the  woods  looked  rather  dark  and  glum  to  the  snow- 
blind  pedestrians  as  they  entered  the  thicket.  Tlie 
small  snow-birds  twittered  here  and  there,  and  seemed 
the  only  thing  of  life  about  the  desolate  spot. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Gabe?  "  asked  Philander, 
as  he  saw  her  glancing  curiously  about  her. 

"  I  don't  always  telf  what  I  think." 

"That's  so,  but  I  bet  I  can  guess  this  time." 

"  Bet  you  can't." 


A    TRIP    TO    FRASER  S   CREEK. 


165 


as 


"  I'll  bet  you're  thinkin'  that  we'd  better  go  back. 
Come  now,  own  np." 

"  Philander,  if  you  don't  show  me  the  way  into  that — 
that  place,  I'll  g'o  alone." 

"  All  right,  old  girl,  I'll  give  you  more'n  you  bargained 
for." 

They  tramped  steadily  ahead  for  some  time,  and 
Gabrielle  was  forced  to  admit  that  it  was  rough. 

"  Makes  no  difference,  though,  I'm  goin'  through," 
And  she  did. 

Presently  Philander  pointed  ahead,  and  said: 

*'  See  that  forked  cedar  leanin'  up  against  the  pine?" 

"Yes." 

"  That's  the  spot." 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,"  she  answered,  breathing  hard  from 
her  exertions,  "  for  this  is  gittin'  pretty  tiresome.  Let's 
hurry  up  and  git  there,  though,"  she  continued,  eagerly. 

'*  Gabe,  you  ain't  afraid  o'  nothin',  are  you?  "  exclaimed 
Philander,  watching  her  in  some  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  am;  I'm  afraid  of  havin'  you  tell  me  how  I 
ouirhter  act  toward  other  folks." 

"Plain  to  be  seen  that's  on  her  mind,"  thought  Phi- 
lander, smiling  to  himself. 

"  Look  here.  Philander,  what's  this?  "  she  suddenly 
asked,  bending  down  and  pointing  at  the  snow  in  front 
of  her. 

"That's  one  of  the  tracks,  sure's  yini're  born." 

"Tracks!  What  kind  of  a  track  is  thai,  I'd  like  to 
know? " 

"Jest  what  I'd  like  to  know  too." 

"Well,  let's  follow  it,  anyhow." 

"Gabe,  you  beat  all."  » 

"I'll  beat  you  if  you  don't  come  along." 


Sii' 


166 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


She  was  growing  excited.  They  found  that  it  led 
down  toward  the  cedcir-tree,  and  as  they  approached  it 
they  saw  many  other  tracks  leading  to  the  upturned 
roots.  From  there  a  well-beaten  path  ran  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  cave. 

"If  you  was  up  where  that  crotch  is,"  said  Philander, 
looking  up  the  trunk  of  the  pine,  "  you  could  see  where 
the  mouth  of  the  cave  is." 

"  Well,  I'm  goin'  up." 
•  "  Goin'  up?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I'm  goin'  to  climb  up  this  cedar." 

"  Gabe,  you're  crazy!  You  can't  do  anything  of  the 
kind.     You'd  fall  and  break  your  neck." 

"  My  neck'U  have  to  take  its  chances,  for  I'm  goin'  up 
that  cedar,"  she  replied,  resolutely  taking  off  her  snow- 
shoes.  "  Moccasins  are  jest  the  thing  to  climb  trees 
in." 

"  Well,  Gabe,  you're  a  terror  to  snakes,"  he  remarked, 
as  he  saw  her  half-way  up  the  cedar.  "  Look  out  you 
don't  fall." 

"  I  can't  see  any  cave,"  she  observed,  rather  disap- 
pointedly, as  she  reached  the  top. 

"  No,  you  wouldn't  likely  notice  it  unless  you  knew 
jest  where  to  look  for  it.     The  opening  is  covered." 

"  You  say  that  path  leads  to  it? " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  you  go  up  the  path  and  show  me  where  the 
mouth  of  the  cave  is.     I'll  stay  here." 

Philander  glanced  around  him  uneasily  for  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid  about  me,"  she  said.  "  I'll 
stay  up  here  till  you  come  back." 

"  Plague  take  that  girl,"  muttered  Philander  to  him- 
self as  he  started  off.     "  I  don't  know's  I  was  so  afraid 


A    TRIP    TO    ERASER  S    CREEK. 


167 


about  her  as  I  was  about  myself.  And  yet  I  s'pose  I 
oughtn't  to  be  frightened  when  she  doesn't  seem  to  care 
a  rap.  But,  after  all,"  he  continued,  "she  hasn't  seen 
the  blamed  thing  yet,  and  doesn't  have  the  slightest 
idee  what  it's  like.     I  wish  I  hadn't  brought  her  here." 

Soon  he  was  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  Gabriellc, 
peeping  around  the  side  of  the  pine,  saw  him  looking 
down  at  something  in  front  of  him. 

"  Here  it  is,  Gabe,"  he  called  out,  touching  the  stone 
with  the  toe  of  his  snow-shoe. 

"  Wait  a  minute.  Philander,  and  let  me  come  up  and 
see." 

'*  You  stay  where  you  are,  missy,  and  don't  you  dare 
to  come  up  here.  Blame  that  girl,  she'll  get  the  wits 
frightened  right  out  of  her  first  thing  she  knows,"  as  he 
looked  nervously  arotmd. 

**  Say,  Philander,  I've  found  out  something  I  want  to 
tell  you,"  she  exclaimed,  slipping  quickly  down  the 
tree. 

"  Gabe!  See  here!  You  stay — "  But  she  was  out  of 
sight  ere  he  could  check  her.  In  a  short  time  she  came 
panting  to  where  he  was. 

"  What  have  you  found  out?  "  he  asked,  somewhat 
anxiously. 

"I've  found  out  that  I  want  to  see  into  the  cave." 

"  D-d-d — why,  Gabe,  you  make  me  mad  enough  to 
swear." 

"  Why  don't  you  swear,  then,  and  not  stutter  so? " 

"  See  here,  Gabe,  I  don't  want  to  frighten  you,  now 
I've  got  you  into  this  spot,  but  I  want  to  tell  you  that 
this  ain't  no  place  for  you,  and  I'm  goin'  to  get  you 
out  of  it  right  off.  I  was  a  fool  for  bringin'  you  here, 
anyhow,  but  I'd  no  idee  you'd  act  the  way  you  do." 


108 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


"  Did  you  s'pose  I'd  want  to  come  licrc  without  scein' 
anything?  You  must  think  I  like  a  hjng  walk  for 
nothing." 

"  Well,  you  ain't  goin'  to  see  anything  morc'n  you 
have  seen,  for  I'm  goin'  to  take  you  home.  If  that 
thing'd  happen  to  come  along  when  we  was  pokin'  our 
noses  into  its  cave,  you'd  git  the  worst  scare  you  ever 
had." 

"  Maybe  it's  in  the  cave  now,"  said  Gabrielle,  looking, 
if  the  truth  be  told,  a  little  anxiously  at  the  stone. 

*' No,"  he  said,  "I've  thought  that  all  over,  and  if  I 
hadn't  been  sure  it  wasn't  there  I'd  never  been  fool 
enough  to  let  you  come  up  here  so  close.  It's  out  some 
place,  but  no  knowin'  when  it'll  come  back,  and  wc 
must  git  right  out  of  here." 

"  Not  till  I've  seen  into  the  cave,"  she  said,  pcrsisl- 
ently. 

"  Gabe,  now  look  here — " 

"  Philander.  I'm  lookin'." 

"  Now  you've  got  to  do  as  I  say,  and  I'm  not  goin'  to 
stay  here  another  minute,  so  come  along." 

"  Do  you  remember  one  other  time.  Philander,  when 
I  wouldn't  do  as  you  said — the  time  of  the  storm  on  the 
lake?  We  came  out  all  right  then,  didn't  wc?  And  wo 
will  now.  I  don't  want  to  act  as  mean  as  I  did  then, 
but  I  must  see  into  that  cave.  Jest  pull  oif  the  stone 
and  let  me  peep  in,  and  I'll  go." 

"Well,  peep  in,  then,"  said  he,  lifting  away  the  stone. 
"  If  you  get  scared  to  death  it  ain't  my  fault." 

"Good  heavens!"  she  screamed,  a  moment  later. 
'•'■Philander !  There's  something — ohcJl!  There's  some- 
thing alive  in  there!  Come  awa}^  quick!  "  And  she 
was  running  like  a  frightened  deer  before   Philander 


A    TRIP    TO    FRASER  S    CREEK. 


1C9 


could  gather  his  senses.  He  hurried  after  her,  and 
found  her  nervously  tying  on  her  snow-shoes  where  she 
had  left  them  at  the  foot  of  the  eedar. 

"  I  thought  you  said  there  was  nothing  in  there,"  she 
said,  in  a  pitiful  agitation. 

"  Gabe,  it  ain't  my  fault.  I'm  sorry  you  got  such 
a  fright,  but  I  thought  sure  it  wasn't  there.  I  thought 
our  voices  would  have  brought  it  out  long  ago  if  it  was 
in  the  cave.  But  you  were  bound  to  look  in,  in  spite  of 
me." 

"  I  know,"  she  admitted.     "  Let's  go  home." 

Gabrielle  was  thoughtful  all  the  way  home,  but  her 
fright  did  not  last  so  long  as  Philander  expected.  She 
seemed  to  be  turning  something  over  in  her  mind,  but 
what  it  was  Philander  could  not  guess. 

"  Gabe,  that  didn't  scare  you  half  so  bad  as  I  should 
have  thought  it  would." 

'*  It  scared  me  bad  enough  at  the  time,"  she  said, 
"for  I  didn't  expect  it;  but  when  I  had  time  to  think 
it  over  I  got  over  my  fright.  Say,  Philander,  do  you 
think  that  can  be  a  human  being? " 

*'Gabe,  we've  all  asked  ourselves  that  before,  and 
none  of  us  has  been  able  to  answer  it  for  sure,  but  I 
don't  see  how  it  can  be  anything  else.  I  never  had  a 
thing  puzzle  me  so  in  my  life." 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  man." 

"You've  got  more  grit'n  most  men,  Gabc;  and  any- 
way, if  you  was  a  man  Donald  wouldn't  have  anything 
to  keep  him  from  marryin'  that  Scotch  girl." 

"Oh  fudge!  I'm  not  thinkin'  of  him,  c)r  his  vScotch 
girl  either,  just  now." 

"  But  you  would,  though,  if  there  had  been  any 
pe'tic'lar  Scotch  girl,  wouldn't  you  now?  " 


f 


170 


THE    HKU.MIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


"  I  want  you  to  promise  mc  one  thing,  Philander," 
she  said,  not  noticini^"  his  question. 

"What  is  it?" 

'*  Don't  tell  anybody — not  a  soul — that  we've  been 
over  to  Eraser's  Creek  to-day." 

"That's  on  your  mind,  hey?  Well,  I  won't  say  any- 
thing about  it.     I  thought  you'd  git  enough  of  it." 

"How  do  you  know  I've  got  enough  of  it?"  she 
asked,  rather  significantly,  as  she  turned  at  last  into  her 
home. 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  had.     Good-by." 


i 


XIX. 


HUNTING   FOR  TAMARACK   GUM. 

O  EVERAL  weeks  had  passed,  and  during  this  inter- 
^  val  the  usual  course  of  events  went  on  around  the 
Nonquon.  The  shantymen  were  getting  well  along 
with  their  work,  and  the  bay  down  beyond  Beaver 
Meadow  Point  was  black  with  logs.  Most  of  the  grain 
around  the  neighborhood  was  marketed,  and  the  next 
year's  supply  of  wood  had  been  hauled  up  and  piled  in 
the  yard  to  dry.  Mrs.  McGlorrie  prided  herself  in  hav- 
ing as  nice  a  lot  of  beech  and  maple  as  a  housewife 
could  wish,  and  what  added  to  her  satisfaction  was  the 
fact  that  most  of  it  had  been  split  and  piled  by  Dcnnie. 
He  was  her  favorite  in  all  things.  ''  I  only  wish  Gabri- 
elle  was  half  the  child  that  Dinnie  is,"  she  often  said; 
"  but  it  isn't  in  her,  and  a  body  needn't  expect  to  have 
any  control  over  her.  I'm  sure  I  can't  see  who  she 
takes  it  from." 

Gabrielle  had  been  especially  trying  to  her  mother  of 
late.  Almost  every  fine  day,  and  some  days  that  were 
not  fine,  she  put  on  her  snow-shoes  and  went  off  some- 
where for  a  tramp.  When  asked  as  to  her  route,  she 
always  said  she  was  going  down  in  the  swamp  to  hunt 
for  tamarack  gum. 

"  Tamarack  gum,  to  be  sure,"  her  mother  would  say, 
impatiently.  "  I  don't  see  why  you've  got  such  a  sudden 
fit  for  tamarack  gimi.  It's  my  opinion  that  you  go 
traipsin'  off  the  way  you  do  for  no  other  reason  than 

(171) 


172 


TIIK    lIKRMir    OF    TFIK    NONQUON. 


because  you'll  sooner  walk  on  thcni  snow-shoes  than  to 
cat  )our  dinner,  'specially  since  you  j^^-ot  the  moccasins 
from  that  old  h'athen  of  Lxn  Indian.  I  wish  him  and 
his  moccasins  was  in  the  bottom  of  the  lake,  long 
before  you  ever  come  across  him." 

But  Gabrielle  seemed  not  to  be  deeply  influenced  by 
the  expression  of  these  sentiments,  for  she  continued  to 
use  the  moccasins.  vShe  usually  returned  from  her 
tramps  before  her  father  came  in  from  the  shantv,  but 
one  evening  he  got  to  the  house  earlier  than  usual,  and 
she  had  not  arrived.  The  occasi(jn  which  brought  him 
home  so  soon  was  a  slight  mishap  to  Pierre.  He  had 
caught  his  finger  in  a  clevis  in  some  way  and  got  it 
smashed,  and  there  happened  to  be  no  liniment  at  the 
shanty,  so  Bonaventurc  took  him  home  for  reliel'.  Mrs. 
McGlorrie  was  binding  up  the  finger,  when  Bonaventurc 
asked  where  Gabrielle  was. 

"Oh,  she  hasn't  got  ])ack  from  huntin'  her  tamarack 
gum  yet.  I'm  out  o'  all  manner  o'  patience  with  that 
girl.  She's  off  nearly  every  day  of  her  life  lately,  and 
she  keeps  stayin'  away  longer  every  time,  till  now  she's 
traipsin'  around  on  them  snow-shoes  most  of  her  time." 

"  Well,  w^ell,  mother,  never  mind,"  said  Bonaventurc, 
good-humoredl}';  "  you  know  that  when  you  were  a 
girl  you  liked  to  do  a  great  deal  of  running  around  too, 
so  don't  be  too  hard  on  her.  I  don't  like  to  have  her 
out  quite  so  late,  though,"  he  continued,  as  he  looked 
and  saw  it  was  just  growing  dark. 

B}^  the  time  the  sore  hand  was  finally  dressed  it  had 
darkened  perceptibly,  and  yet  no  Gabrielle.  Bonavent- 
urc glanced  several  times  out  of  the  window,  and  began 
to  grow  slightly  uneasy.  Pierre,  who  smelled  a  good 
ig,  was  loath  to  go  back  to   the   shanty 


ippei 


vi.-; 


'£>> 


HUNTING    lOU    TAMARACK    ClUM. 


173 


without  tastini;-  it,  so  liu  began  to  jabber  away  in  real 
French  fishion  to  Bonav'entiirc.  The  iu'-enious 
FrOnchma.i  had  long  ago  learned  that  to  get  Bona- 
vcnture's  attention  and  good-will  it  was  only  necessary 
to  talk  of  their  nationality;  so  he  rattled  ahead  about 
some  of  the  boy  companions  he  used  to  have  down  in 
L(jwer  Canada,  before  he  came  west.  He  told  of  Paul, 
and  Jean,  and  Napole(m,  and — yes,  he  even  knew  a 
Bonaventure  there.  It  was  music  in  the  foreman's 
ear,  and  he  listened  more  and  more  intently  as  the  nar- 
rator grew  enthused  over  his  reminiscences.  The  time 
went  on,  and  before  they  knew  it  supper  was  ready. 
As  Mrs.  McGlorrie  l)rought  in  the  last  dish  she 
remarked: 

"  I  don't  sec  what's  keepiii'  (iabrielle.  wShe  never 
stayed  out  so  late  as  this  before." 

"Isn't  that  girl  here  yet?"  asked  Bonaventure,  sud- 
denly jumping  t(;  his  feet. 

"No." 

"  Well,  that's  strange.  I  wish  you'd  told  me.  I  was 
listening  to  Pierre  and  forgot.  Which  wav  does  .she 
usually  go?  Oh,  there,  she's  coming  now,  I  think.  I 
hear  some  one," 

But  it  turned  out  to  be  B'gob-sir,  who  stamped  his 
feet  noisily  to  shake  off  the  snow,  and  then  stepped 
heavily  into  the  room.  After  bidding  them  all  good- 
evening,  he  asked: 

"Where's  Gabrielle?  I've  brought  her  up  some 
mendin'  to  do.  I  broke  ofif  one  string  to  my  ear-lappers, 
and  I  wouldn't  let  any  one  fix  'em  but  her,  for  she  made 
'em  for  me  in  the  first  place." 

Gabrielle  was  in  the  habit  of  fixing  up  a  few  trifling 
comforts  for  the  old  fellow  now  and  then — possibly  to 


T 


174 


THK    HKRMIT    OV    THF,    NONQUON. 


repay  him  for  the  many  times  she  joked  at  his  expense. 
He  was  proud  of  this  attention,  and  held  her  little 
presents  very  precious, 

"Gabrielle's  out  some  place,"  said  Bonaventurc,  "and 
I  was  just  thinking  of  going  and  looking  for  her. 
I'm  uneasy  at  having  her  away  from  home  at  this  hour. 
I  don't  know  which  way  to  go,  though,"  he  continued, 
as  he  went  to  the  door  and  peered  anxiously  out  into 
the  night. 

"  Now,  Bonaventer,  don't  you  worry  a  minute  about 
Gabrielle,"  said  B'gob-sir.  "That  girl  will  take  care  of 
herself  wherever  she  is.  I'd  trust  her  for  that  a  blamed 
sight  quicker'n  I  would  most  men.  You  jest  come  in 
and  set  down  and  rest  yourself  content,  for  she  will 
turn  up  all  right." 

There  was  really  some  solace  in  the  old  fellow's 
words,  and  in  the  confidence  with  which  he  said  them. 

"  I  don't  know  but  you're  right,"  said  Bonaventure, 
shutting  the  door.  "  Anyhow,  I'll  wait  a  little  while, 
for,  as  I  said,  I  wouldn't  know  which  way  to  start." 

"  We  might  as  well  have  supper,"  said  Mrs.  McGlor- 
rie.  "  Come,  Mr.  Brown,  sit  up  and  have  something  to 
eat  with  lis." 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,"  answered  B'gob-sir,  in  a  reticent 
way.     "  I  don't  care  for  anything  to  eat  jest  now." 

"  Why,  come  along,"  insisted  Bonaventure.  "  Draw 
up  your  chair  and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  You  mustn't 
hang  back  like  that  when  you're  in  this  house." 

"Well,  now,  Bonaventer,  what  a  man  you  be.  I'd  no 
idee  of  havin'  supper  with  you  folks  when  I  come  up 
here,  and  I  tell  you  I  ain't  a  bit  hungry  " — at  the  same 
time  sliding  his  chair  up  to  the  table. 

For  a  man   who  "  wasn't  a  bit  hungry,"  B'gob-sir 


HUNTING    FOR    TAMARACK    GUM. 


176 


made  a  very  laudable  attempt  to  do  justiee  to  Mrs, 
MeGlorrie's  cooking.  They  were  nearly  through  with 
their  meal,  when  Bonavcnture  began  to  show  a  renewed 
anxiety  on  Gabrielle's  account.  He  glanced  uneasily 
toward  the  door  several  times,  and  listened  at  every 
sound. 

"  I  surely  must  go  and  look  for  Gabriellc,"  he 
exclaimed  at  last.  *'  I  can't  wait  here  any  longer.  I've 
thought  I  heard  her  two  or  three  times  outside,  but  I 
think  it  must  be  the  wind.     Anyhow,  I'm  going." 

Just  as  he  said  this  there  was  a  murmuring  sound  of 
words  at  the  doorstep,  followed  by  a  fumbling  at  the 
latch.  Every  eye  was  turned  expectantly  in  that  direc- 
tion, when  suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  there  stood 
Gabrielle  with  the  wild  man  held  tightly  by  the  arm! 

Probably  a  supper-table  was  never  demoralized  so 
quickly  before,  B'gob-sir  instantly  took  on  the  same 
panic  of  fright  he  had  experienced  at  the  time  of  the 
deer-hunt,  and  knocking  over  his  chair,  he  floundered 
out  into  the  kitchen,  where  he  could  be  heard  tearing 
around  like  a  loose  elephant  among  the  pots,  and  pans, 
and  kettles.  Somehow  he  finally  found  the  door,  and 
they  saw  no  more  of  him  that  night.  Little  Dennie  ran 
screaming  into  the  bed-room,  and  sought  refuge  imder 
the  far  side  of  the  bed,  Mrs.  McGlorrie  stood  hemmed 
up  in  a  corner,  with  her  hands  lifted  high  in  holy 
horror,  and  her  eyes  sticking  out  so  far  "  you  could 
hang  your  hat  on  'em,"  as  Gabrielle  afterward  claimed. 
Pierre — well,  Pierre  was  French — he  was  naturally 
excitable — and  he  had  never  seen  anything  in  all  his 
life  like  this.  No  one  can  tell  what  he  thought,  but  he 
acted  very  much  like  a  chattering,  terrified  monkey 
driven  to  the  far  comer  of  his  cage. 


li 


170 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


'I  : 


"  Pierre,  stop  that  noise,  you  fool,"  exclaimed  Gubri- 
elle,  angrily,  "or  you'll  frighten  him  away  in  spite  of 
me,     I've  had  hard  enough  work  gittin'  him  here." 

"  Gabrielle,  child,"  said  Bonaventure,  almost  palsied 
with  excitement,  "  what  arc  you  doing,  girl?  What 
have  you  there? " 

"  An  old  man,  father,"  answered  Gabrielle,  with  a 
world  of  pent-up  pathos  in  her  voice.  *'  An  old  man 
who  is  nearly  starved,  and  who  must  have  a  home." 

The  object  of  her  remark  stood  beside  her,  in  all  the 
uncouth  animalism  that  had  struck  terror  to  everybody 
who  saw  him.  He  seemed  like  a  captured  creature  from 
the  woods,  ready  to  break  away  at  the  vslightest  pro^'^o- 
cation.  He  was  frightened,  and  suspicious  of  every 
object  about  him — except  one. 

That  was  Gabrielle.  He  stood  staring  at  the  inmates 
of  the  house,  with  eyes  "  as  big  as  tea-saucers,"  as  Phi- 
lander had  described,  and  at  every  move  made  by  them 
he  would  suddenly  turn  as  if  to  run.  But  a  word  from 
Gabrielle,  accompanied  by  a  quieting  gesture  of  her 
hand,  brought  him  round,  and  made  him  cling  close  to 
her  for  protection.  By  dint  of  much  persuasion  she  got 
him  inside  by  the  fire,  and  the  sensation  must  have  feH 
comforting  to  him,  for  he  instinctively  reached  out  his 
bony  hands  toward  the  stove.  But  she  could  not  induce 
him  to  sit  down.  All  the  while  he  was  darting  sharp, 
suspicious  glances  at  everything  around  him,  and  it  was 
vSv)me  time  before  Gabrielle  could  bring  about  anything 
like  an  imdei\standing  between  him  and  the  others.  It 
was  difficult  to  tell  which  was  the  more  frightened, 
the  wild  human  being  or  the  domesticated  ones,  Bon- 
aventure  seemed  not  so  nnicli  frightened  as  awed.  He 
stood  watching  intently  every  action,  but  kept  well  out 


HUNTING    FOR    TAMARACK    GUM. 


M 


of  Gabriellc's  way  while  she  was  attempting  to  reassure 
her  charge. 

Pierre,  however,  could  not  restrain  himself.  In  his 
excitement  he  gave  Bonaventure  his  opinion  as  to  what 
the  thing  was,  in  a  variety  of  lingo  beyond  interpreta- 
tion. His  tongue  slipped  back  so  naturally,  under  the 
stress  of  the  moment,  into  his  native  language,  that 
lialf  the  words  were  French  and  the  other  half  a  wholly 
unintelligible  English.  What  added  to  his  uneasiness 
was  the  fact  that  every  time  he  broke  out  into  an 
exclamation  the  wild  man  darted  a  quick,  curious 
glance  at  him  that  drove  his  heart  into  his  throat. 
Somehow  there  so(m  began  to  be  a  peculiar  fascinati(jn 
in  Pierre  ft)r  the  wild  man,  and  he  watched  him  closclv. 
He  looked  from  Pierre  to  Gabriel le,  and  from  (jabri- 
elle  to  Pierre,  and  seemed  more  and  more  absorbed  in 
the  Frenchman.  He  evidently  began  to  lose  his  fear, 
but  appeared  restless  about  something,  and  looked 
almost  appealingly  at  Gabrielle.  vSlic  could  not  make 
out  what  caused  him  to  act  in  this  way,  but  saw  that 
Pierre's  incessant  chatter  seemed  to  absorb  his  atten- 
tion, and  relieve  liis  fear,  .so  she  told  Pierre  to  talk 
away.  Finally  the  wild  man  began  to  show  symptoms 
of  wanting  to  go  annmd  (ju  the  side  f^f  the  stove  toward 
Pierre.  This  caused  a  fresh  flow  of  French  from 
Pierre,  while  the  wild  man  stop[)ed  short  and  stared  at 
him  with  that  same  puzzled,  peculiar  expressitm.  All 
at  once  his  lips  began  to  move,  and  a  low,  muttering 
sound  came  fr(/m  him.  It  was  almost  a  whisper,  emit- 
ted in  short,  jerky  intervals,  and  seemed  like  the  halt- 


I' 


ing  utterance  of  a  thought  strugglin; 
in  a  blank  mind. 


lor  recognition 


12 


178 


THE    HERMIT    OF    T?IE    NONOUON. 


1H'* 


vSuddenly  Pierre  ceased  his  chatter  and  listened 
intently,  then  broke  out  in  the  greatest  excitement: 

"  By  golly,  Bonaventurc,  she's  Franch!'" 

"What  was  tJiat  you  said,  Pierre?  "  asked  Bonavent- 
urc, almost  as  excited  as  the  other. 

"  I  tol'  you  she's  Francli.     She  spick  dc  fram^ais!'" 

"  Are  you  surc^  Pierre?  " 

"  Sure!  Mon  Dicii!  Can't  you  leesten?  I  tol'  you 
yaas,  she's  Franch!  Parlcz-vous  franraisF"  he  said, 
turning  to  the  wild  man. 

A  ray  of  intelligence  shot  across  the  uncouth  face, 
and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  the  lips  moved  again, 
but  with  the  same  halting  utterance. 

"  She  no  spick ^'■^c^',"  said  Pierre,  '*  bot — she's  Franch." 

Bonaventure  was  strangely  moved.  Somehow  he 
felt  the  same  sensation  of  awe  that  had  come  over  him 
in  the  woods  when  they  were  searching  for  the  cave. 

The  element  of  fear  seemed  to  be  subsidinu-  with  the 
wild  man,  and  he  glanced  around,  till  finally  his  eye 
fell  on  the  supper-table.  He  looked  somewhat  greedily 
toward  it,  and  Gabrielle  moved  him  up  to  a  chair  by 
the  table  and  managed  to  force  him  into  it.  As  he  was 
sitting  down  he  seized  a  bit  of  bread  and  began  munch- 
ing it.  His  back  was  turned  to  the  others.  Suddenly  he 
sprang  to  his  feet,  and  turned  and  looked  suspiciously  at 
them.  Gabrielle  pushed  him  around  to  the  other  side  of 
the  table,  and  seated  him  where  his  eyes  could  watch 
them.     She  sat  close  to  him,  and  fed  '  *m  bountifullv. 

"Isn't  this  worth  bringin'  him  home  for?"  she  said. 
'*  Look  at  the  way  he  eats.  Poor  old  fellow,  he's  nearly 
starved."  • 

The  wild  man  evidently  liked  to  hear  Gabrielle  talk. 
He  even  stopped  chewing  while  she  spoke,  and  nestled 


'Ji 


ILL 


HUNTING    FOR    TAMARACK    GUM. 


1?9 


h- 
le 
at 


id. 
-ly 

Ik. 
cd 


up  close  to  her  in  a  way  that  made  ^Irs.  McGlorric's 
"  flesh  creep,"  as  she  afterward  declared.  The  lii'irl 
exerted  a  wonderful  influence  over  him  for  some 
reason.  After  feeding  him  his  fill,  she  took  him  again 
to  the  stove,  and  this  time  ho  sat  down.  The  sense  of 
animal  comfort  was  fast  allaying  his  suspicion,  and 
Gabrielle  was  soon  relieved  to  see  that  he  had  lost  all 
disposition  to  run  away. 

Little  Dennie,  who  had  been  shivering  under  the  bed 
all  iiiis  time,  hearing  that  the  excitement  had  for  some 
reason  died  down,  ventured  to  come  out.  As  he 
stepped  cautiously  to  the  bed-room  door,  the  wild  man 
caught  sight  of  him,  and  instantly  a  strange  agitation 
came  over  him.  It  was  not  fear — that  was  plain — but  a 
pathetic  emotion  of  some  sort  seized  him,  and  he  began 
to  gasp  for  breath  and  tremble.  He  looked  intensely 
— almost  wistfully — at  Dennie,  and  started  to  go  toward 
him;  but  it  was  not  in  the  same  way  that  he  had 
approached  Pierre.  Evidently  there  was  nothing 
about  Pierre  except  his  speech  which  attracted  him, 
for  as  soon  as  Pierre  stopped  talking  French  he  paid 
no  further  attention  to  him.  But  there  was  something 
in  the  appearance  of  Dennie  which  seemed  to  have  a 
sudden  fascination  for  him.  That  poor  youth,  when  he 
saw  the  wild  man  looking  at  him  with  such  terribly  big 
eyes,  and  saw  him  coming  toward  him,  was  frightened 
almost  into  spasms,  and  making  a  sudden  dart  managed 
this  time  to  reach  the  stairs.  He  disappeared  into  the 
garret  as  precipitately  as  B'gob-sir  had  done  out  of  the 
kitchen  door. 

When  Mrs.  McGlorric — the  wild  man  had  nev^er  paid 
the  slightest  attention  t(j  her — at  last  found  her  tongue, 
she  said  to  Gabrielle: 


180 


TIIH    HERMIT    OF    THF,    NONQUON. 


**  Well,  now  that  you've  gone  and  brought  this — this 
creatur'  here,  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  are  going  to  do 
with  him? " 

"I'm  goin'  to  sit  up  with  him  to-night,"  answered 
Gabrielle,  "  and  see  that  he  is  kept  comfortable  till 
morning.  I'll  make  a  bed  for  him  here  by  the  stove, 
and  watch  him.  It'll  be  the  most  comfortable  bed  the 
poor  soul  has  had  for  many  a  long  night,  I  should  say." 

"Well,  Gabrielle,  my  child,"  said  her  father,  "I  will 
keep  you  company.  I  don't  want  to  leave  you  here 
alone,  and  anyhow,  I  wish  you  to  tell  me  all  about  how 
you  came  to  get  him." 

Pierre  hastened  away  to  the  shanty,  swelled  with  the 
startling  news  he  had  for  the  shantymen,  while  Mrs. 
McGlorrie  made  her  way  into  the  garret  to  quiet  the 
fears  of  her  beloved  Dennic;  and  the  last  mutterings 
heard  as  she  ascended  the  stairs  sounded  something  like 
this:    "Hunting  for  tamarack  gum,  humph!  " 


1)  n ' 


XX. 


GABRIELLE'S   STORY. 

^  ABRIELLE  made  a  bed  for  her  charge  on  the  floor 
^-^  by  the  vStove,  and  he  curled  down  upon  it  much 
after  the  fashion  of  a  vStray  dog.  His  heavy  breathing 
soon  showed  that  his  fear  had  left  him,  and  he  was 
sleeping  soundly. 

It  had  been  a  trying  day  for  Gabrielle,  and  when  at 
last  an  occasional  snore  from  the  cot  by  the  stove  indi- 
cated that  there  was  no  further  necessity  for  watching, 
she  climbed  impulsively  on  her  father's  knee,  as  she  had 
so  often  done  when  a  child,  and,  placing  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  laid  her  head  wearily  on  his  broad  shoulder. 

"You're  tired,  my  child,"  said  her  father,  tenderly 
brushing  back  the  dark  locks  from  her  forehead  with 
his  hand.  "  You'd  better  go  to  bed,  dearie,  and  let  me 
watch.     I'll  call  you  if  needed." 

"  No,  father,  I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed  to-night.  I  don't 
want  to  leave  him — nor  you  either.  I  must  talk  to  you, 
and  tell  you  all  about  it,  I'd  have  told  you  before,  but 
I  was  afraid  maybe  you  wouldn't  want  me  to  do  it,  and 
I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  leavin'  him  out  in  the  woods 
any  longer.  It  was  awful,  father,  when  you  think  of  it. 
And  all  these  years — I  don't  know  how  many." 

"  But  how  did  you  know  where  he  was?  " 

"Philander  took  me  over  there  some  weeks  ago  and 
showed  me  the  spot." 

"Philander?"  -^    .  ' 

(181) 


182 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


"Yes,  father,  l)ut  you  mustn't  blame  him,  you  must 
blame  me,  for  he  didn't  want  to  do  it  without  you 
knowin'  it.  You  needn't  blame  him,  for  it  was  all  my 
fault." 

** Fault!  It  was  nobody's  fault,  child.  I  don't  blame 
anybody — yes,  I  blame  myself  for  not  following-  the 
matter  up  as  I  should  have  done.  Gabrielle,  you  mustn't 
talk  to  me  about  blaming'  you  for  anything  you  do. 
You  know  I  never  do  that." 

"I  know,  father,  and  I  often  wonder  why  you  don't." 

"  Because,  child,  I  know  that  you  would  never  do  any- 
thing wrong  if  you  knew  it." 

She  kissed  his  roughened  cheek  and  nestled  closer  to 
him. 

"  But,  father,  I  do  act  awful  sometimes.  Don't  you 
remember  that  time  last  spring,  down  by  the  creek, 
when  I  was  out  in  the  canoe?"  And  some  of  the  old 
roguish  twinkle  came  back  into  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  you  little  minx,  I  do  remember  it,  for  I  was 
frightened  terribly  for  a  minute." 

"  I  don't  know  what  makes  me  do  such  things — but — 
I  can't  help  it." 

"  I  know  yoi.  can't,"  said  her  father,  with  an  amused 
smile,  as  he  thought  of  some  of  her  youthful  capers; 
''and  that's  the  reason  I  can't  blame  you.  But  you  are 
getting  older  now,  Gabrielle,  and  you  mustn't  do  so 
many  dangerous  things.  It  would  hurt  me  more  than 
it  would  you  if  anything  was  to  happen." 

**  I  know  I'm  older,  father,  and  I  don't  think  I'll  ever 
git  into  so  much  mischief  again.  I  don't  feel  like  I 
used  to,"  she  said,  with  more  soberness.  '*I  ain't  a  bit 
like  I  was  a  year  ago.  I  never  used  to  think  what  I 
was  doing.     But  now  it's  different.     All  the  while  since 


GABRIELLE  S   STORY. 


183 


I  have  been  goin'  over  to  Fraser's  Creek  I  haven't  been 
easy  a  minute  on  aecount  of  doin'  something'  on  the 
sly  from  you;  but  I  was  afraid  to  tell  you  for  fear 
you'd  stop  me." 

"  And  that's  what  I  should  have  done,"  he  remarked, 
with  almost  a  shudder,  as  he  thought  it  all  over.  "  But 
I'd  have  gone  myself  and  got  this  old  man.  That  was 
my  intention  after  the  trip  I  made  over  there,  but  I've 
been  so  busy  with  the  logs." 

"Well,  then,  I'm  glad  I  didn't  tell  you,  father," 
Gabrielle  declared,  "  for  you  never  could  have  got  any- 
where near  him." 

"  Tell  me  how  you  managed  it  The  whole  thing 
frightens  me.' 

"  It  needn't  frighten  you.  The  old  fellow  wouldn't 
hurt  a  mouse — tmless  he  wanted  to  catch  it  to  eat;  and 
I  guess  he'd  eat  almost  anything.  Why,  he  v/as  so 
hungry;  but  I  must  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  wish  Philan- 
der was  here.  He  thought  I  was  frightened  out 
entirely;  and  I  tell  you  the  first  glimpse  I  got  when 
Philander  and  I  peeped  into  the  cave  was  enough  to 
scare  me  most  to  death.  I  didn't  expect  to  see  anything, 
as  Philander  had  said  it  wouldn't  likely  be  in  the  ciive, 
and  when  I  looked  in  and  seen  the  two  great  eyes 
starin'  up  at  me  I  never  got  such  a  start.  But  when  I 
thought  it  all  over  afterward,  I  was  bound  to  see  more 
of  it,  for  I  was  sure  it  couldn't  be  very  dangerous.  I 
remembered  you  all  telling  how  fast  it  would  run  away, 
and  I  thought  by  that  it  wouldn't  be  likely  to  hurt  any 
one.  And,  anyhow,  I  couldn't  rest  till  I  had  done  some- 
thing about  it,  for  I  couldn't  bear  the  idea  of  Icavin'  it 
over  there  if  it  was  human — and  I  knew  it  must  be." 

"  Yoii  have  g(jt  a  bigger  heart  than  all  the  rest  of 
us,"  interposed  her  father   fondlv. 


^ 


184 


ii!i 


THE    HERMIT    OF     THE    NONQUON. 


"  So  I  picked  on  a  nice  bri^dit  day — it's  an  awful  place 
over  in  there,  isn't  it? — and  started  to  '  hunt  for 
tamarack  ^um.' "  In  spite  of  her  the  mischief  would 
come  into  her  words  and  looks. 

'*  You  shouldn't  have  told  mother  that,"  protested  her 
father;  hut  the  amused  expression  on  his  face  relieved 
the  protest  of  anythinij;"  in  the  nature  o{  a  reprimand. 

''What  could  I  do,  father?  I  either  had  to  say  some- 
thing^ of  that  sort  or  give  up  goin',  and  I  couldn't  do 
that." 

"  Well,  well,  child,  this  is  no  time  for  me  to  be  fault- 
finding.    Tell  your  story." 

"  I  crept  up  carefully  to  where  I  could  see  the 
erotchcd  cedar,  and  could  almost  see  the  cave,  and 
then  hid  myself  and  watched.  I  knew  he  must  climb 
that  cedar  often,  for  I  seen  wdiere  he  had  made  it 
smooth  the  first  time  I  was  over.  It  zcas  h^iesome,  I 
tell  you,  and  I  stayed  there  so  long  that  I  b'lieved  I'd 
have  to  give  it  up  and  come  away.  Then  I  thought  I'd 
go  down  and  climb  the  cedar  and  find  out  what  I  could 
from  there.  But  right  then  I  heard  something  movin' 
down  in  the  hollow,  and  in  a  minute,  sure  enough,  I 
seen  him  climbin'  up  the  cedar.  He  got  up  as  far  as 
the  crotch,  and  then  looked  carefully  around  the  pine 
toward  the  cave.  He  glanced  all  over,  as  if  suspicious 
of  something,  but  couldn't  see  anything,  and  finally 
slid  down  the  cedar  out  of  sight.  I  watched  in  the 
direction  of  the  cave,  and  soon  I  saw  his  head  come 
bobbin'  along,  and  in  a  minute  I  heard  the  stone  grate 
over  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  I  knew  he  was  safe  inside 
now,  and  I  slipped  down  to  the  cedar  and  laid  a  piece 
of  bread  I  had  brought  with  me  on  the  upturned  root. 
Then  I  was  afraid  some  animal  might  come  along  and 


(iAIJRlELLE  S    STORY. 


18') 


get  it  before  he  seen  it,  and  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do." 

*'  Why  didn't  you  take  it  up  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave 
and  leave  it  there? "  suj^j^ested  her  father,  with  a  pecul- 
iar inflection,  at  the  same  time  watching  her  face 
closely. 

"  Well  now,  I — say,  father,  didn't  he  look  jest  awful 
oLit  there  in  the  woods?" 

vShe  snui4j4ied  up  to  him.  as  it  all  came  back  to  her, 
and  he  held  her  closer  to  his  breast,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  had  the  courage  to  do  what 
you  did,  my  child.  It  frightens  me  now  when  I  think 
of  it.     Go  on." 

**  So  at  last  I  climbed  up  the  cedar  and  put  the  bread 
in  the  crotch,  where  he  couldn't  help  sccin'  it  next 
time  he  went  up.  Tlicn  I  started  f(jr  home,  and  as 
soon  as  I  got  my  back  turned  on  the  spot  I  b'licve  I 
must  have  got  more  scared  every  minute,  for  I  never 
hurried  so  fast  in  my  life  till  I  was  well  out  of  the 
woods.  But  I  couldn't  rest  the  next  day  till  I  had  gone 
back  again,  and  instead  of  waitin'  so  long  to  watch  the 
cedar,  I  looked  all  around,  and  then  climbed  up  to 
where  I  had  left  the  bread.  It  was  g(Mie,  and  I  put 
some  more  in  its  place.  I  was  jest  startin'  to  come 
down,  when  I  seen  his  head  pop  out  from  behind  a 
clump  of  l)ushes  up  by  the  cave.  Instead  of  me  watchin' 
him  this  time  he  had  watched  me.  Wh^n  he  seen  me 
he  come  right  out  from  behind  the  bushes  and  stared 
at  me.  He  put  his  hand  up  over  his  eyes  to  shade  'em, 
for  all  the  world  li;:e  you  do  sometimes,  and  I  b'licve  I 
wasn't  quite  so  scared  of  him  on  that  account.  He 
didn't  seem  much  afraid  of  me,  and  didn't  act  a  bit  like 
all  the  rest  of  you  said  he  would.     He  acted  something 


186 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


like  he  did  to-nig-ht  when  he  seen  Dcnnie.  It's  funny 
how  cnrious  he  ^oes  on  sometimes,  and  you'd  almost 
imag'ine  he  thoug'ht  he  knew  some  of  us.  It  made  me 
a  little  uneasy  to  be  stared  at  like  that — thouj^h  I  wasn't 
so  frightened  as  poor  little  Dennie  was  to-night — and 
so  I  erept  down  the  tree  and  started  away.  I  hadn't 
more'n  got  my  back  turned  till  he  was  at  the  foot  of 
the  cedar,  and  up  it  he  went  like  a  cat  and  grabbed  the 
bread.  Why,  he  could  climb  that  tree  in  a  quarter  of 
the  time  I  could.  He  didn't  seem  to  care  anything 
more  about  me — never  looked  which  direction  I  went 
— but  the  way  he  eat  that  bread  paid  me  for  all  my 
trouble.  Father,  don't  you  think  it's  awful  to  have  any- 
thing so  hungry  as  that?"  she  suddenly  asked,  as  she 
glanced  pathetically  down  at  the  sleeping  figure  by  the 
stove. 

"  Gabrielle,  I  wish  all  the  world  had  your  heart,  my 
child.     There  wouldn't  be  much  suffering,  I'm  sure." 

**  When  I  seen  how  hungry  he  was,  I  took  more  stuff 
with  me  next  time,  and  I'm  afraid  the  last  week  I've 
robbed  mother's  cupboard  awfully."  She  smiled  a  lit- 
tle as  she  continued.  "  I  heard  her  scoldin'  Dennie  the 
other  day  for  piecin'  so  much  between  meals,  but  he 
denied  it,  and  I  didn't  blame  him. 

"  After  I  had  gone  several  times  in  that  way,  he  got 
so  he  would  watch  for  me,  and  at  last  one  day  he  couldn't 
wait  till  I  got  away,  but  came  right  down  the  path 
within  a  few  yards  of  me,  as  I  was  putting  the  food  on 
the  root  of  the  cedar.  He  didn't  look  nearly  so  ugly 
and  bad  when  I  was  close  to  him,  and — somehow  he 
piits  me  in  mind,  every  once  in  awhile,  of — oh,  well, 
now  I  won't  say  what  I  was  goin'  to,  for  you  might  not 
like  it,  and  anyway  I  know  you'd  laugh  at  me — but — " 


GABRIELLE  S   STORY. 


187 


"Why,  say  it,  my  child," insisted  her  father,  surprised 
at  her  sudden  eonl'usion.     "  I  won't  laujj^h  at  you,  child." 

**  Well,  I  was  g'oin'  to  say  that — that  sometimes  he 
makes  me  think  oi you.  The  way  he  put  his  hand  over 
his  eyes  that  first  day  was  jest  like  you.  Of  course  he 
don't  look  a  bit  like  you,"  she  hastened  to  assure  him, 
emphasizing  it  with  a  kiss,  "  but  when  he  walked  down 
the  path  toward  the  cedar  there  was  somethins^-  about 
him  that  took  away  every  bit  of  fright  I  had  for  him. 
Before  I  stopped  to  think  what  I  was  doin'  I  reached 
out  a  piece  cf  meat,  and  he  come  up  and  took  it  out  of 
my  hand,  and  stood  there  and — and — guzzled  it.  There 
ain't  any  other  word  for  it,  father.  You  never  saw  a 
human  being  eat  like  he  did.  When  the  meat  was 
swallowed,  I  gave  him  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter,  and 
I  kept  on  feedin'  him  till  all  the  stuff  was  gone.  When 
he  seen  there  was  no  more  food  he  began  looking  at 
me  in  that  same  funny  way  of  his,  and  I  couldn't  make 
out  what  it  meant.  I  spoke  to  him,  and  he  looked  as  if 
he  wanted  to  talk,  but  didn't  seem  to  understand  what 
I  said,  and  wasn't  able  to  say  anything  himself.  He 
mumbled  a  little,  like  he  did  here  to-night  to  Pierre, 
though  not  nearly  so  much.  But  the  way  he  acted  was 
the  fimniest  part  of  all.  He  seemed  to  want  to  come 
closer  to  me,  and  made  such  queer  motions  with  his 
hands.  I  sat  on  the  root  of  the  cedar  watchin'  what  he 
would  do,  and  first  thing  I  knew  he  came  up  close  to 
me  and  reached  out  and  touched  my  hair." 

Bonaventure  felt  Gabrielle  give  a  little  shiver  as  she 
said  this;  at  least  he  thought  he  did,  and  yet  he  was 
not  exactly  sure  that  it  was  not  himself  that  had  shiv- 
ered.    He  certainly  felt  like  it.     Gabrielle  went  on: 

"  He  mumbled  a  little,  and  then  begun  to   rub   his 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


V 


// 


i^.r 


m. 


1.0 


I.I 


i;*i 


1.25 


SIM  IM 

:: '-  iiiiM 

2.0 


III— 

1-4  mil  1.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14S80 

(716)  872-4503 


L<P 


i^'       ^. 


188 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


hand  down  over  my  shoulder  and  along  my  arm.  I  tell 
yon  what  it  is,  father,  that  wa.s  about  the  tightest  place 
I  ever  was  in.  I  don 't  know  how  I  managed  to  keep  from 
screamin'  and  runnin'  away.  It  made  my  flesh  creep  in 
spite  of  me,  and  I  couldn't  help  movin'  jest  a  little  as  he 
went  on  feelin'  of  me.  But  the  minute  I  stirred  the  least 
bit  he  jerked  away  his  hand,  kind  o'  scared,  and  stepped 
back.  I  seen  he  was  as  much  afraid  of  me  as  I  was  of 
him,  and  maybe  more,  so  I  contrived  to  git  my  heart 
back  where  it  ought  to  be  again.  I  tried  after  that  to 
coax  him  along  with  me,  but  I  couldn't  make  him 
understand  what  I  wanted,  and  I  had  to  leave  him  for 
that  day.  When  I  went  again  he  was  waitin'  for  me  at 
the  foot  of  the  cedar,  and  I  fed  him  a  little  and  then 
walked  away  and  held  out  a  piece  of  meat  to  him,  and 
he  followed  after  me  till  he  got  it.  He  stood  still  till 
he  had  swallowed  it,  and  came  after  me  to  git  some 
more.  In  this  way  I  got  him  quite  a  distance  from  the 
cave,  but  when  the  food  was  all  gone  he  wouldn't  go 
any  further.  I  stayed  with  him  awhile,  and  talked  to 
him,  and  tried  to  persuade  him  to  come  with  me,  but  he 
didn't  seem  to  know  what  I  meant,  I  was  about  dis- 
couraged, but  when  I  started  to  go  away  I  could  see  he 
didn't  want  me  to  leave  him,  and  after  I  had  gone  a  few 
rods  I  heard  him  comin'  after  me.  I  thought  I  had  him 
then  sure,  but  the  minute  we  reached  the  clearin'  he 
stooped,  and  wouldn't  leave  the  woods.  The  next  time 
I  went — that  was  day  before  yesterday — I  stayed  away 
till  later  than  usual,  and  by  the  time  I  got  nicely  into 
the  woods  I  met  him  comin'  to  meet  me.  This  time  I 
managed  to  git  him  out  as  far  as  the  road,  but  the  first 
sleigh  he  saw  driving  along  he  run  like  the  wind.  I 
hadn't  fed  him  nearly  so  much  this  time,  for   I  wao 


GABRIELLE  S   STORY. 


189 


keepin'  most  of  the  food  to  coax  htm  with,  and  I  knew 
he  would  be  hungry.  I  stayed  away  yesterday  on  pur- 
pose— anyway  it  was  an  awful  long  walk  over  there 
every  day  or  two." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  ever  managed  to  go  so  often. 
You  must  have  been  very  tired  at  night,  after  coming 
home,"  said  her  father. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mind  that  at  all/'  And  then,  with  a 
long  breath,  she  admitted,  "  I'm  glad  it's  all  over, 
though.  Well,  when  I  went  there  to-day  I  found  him 
in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  and  I  suppose  the  poor  old 
fellow  had  watched  all  day  yesterday  for  me.  There 
was  no  mistake  about  him  being  glad  to  see  me.  I 
didn't  go  till  late,  so  that  by  the  time  I  got  him  out  to 
the  main  road  it  was  gittiii'  dusk.  That  was  what  I 
wanted.  I  didn't  feed  him  very  much,  as  I  meant  to 
keep  him  hungry.  Whenever  he  acted  scared  and 
looked  like  runnin'  I  held  him  by  the  arm  and  talked 
to  him.  The  minute  I  spoke  he  was  all  right,  and  after 
awhile  when  he  heard  anything  he  would  kind  o' 
tremble  and  keep  close  to  me,  like  you  seen  him  to-night 
at  the  supper-table.  I  don't  b'lieve  any  one  else  could 
'a'  done  anything  with  him.  Poor  old  fellow,  he  jest 
seemed  to  lose  all  confidence  in  himself  when  he  was 
some  distance  on  the  road,  and  looked  to  me  to  take 
care  of  him.  1  hurried  him  along  as  fast  as  I  could 
after  that,  and  finally  got  him  here  to  the  door.  I 
thought  he  was  goin'  to  break  away  and  run  when  I 
brought  him  up  near  the  house,  but  I  talked  away  to 
him  and  he  came  with  me  like  a  dcg.  There,  you 
know  it  all  now,"  she  said,  suddenly  breaking  off,  "and 
I've  got  him  here;  and,  father,  I  don't  want  to  ever  let 
him  git  away  again   to    live    in   that   terrible  place. 


190 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


I 'it; 

1<>  : 


Somehow  there  is  something  about  him  that  makes  me 
feel  near  to  him,  and  though  he  does  look  most  awful 
in  that  rough,  shaggy  suit — hasn't  he  got  the  skins 
fixed  together,  though,  in  a  funny  way?  I  don't  believe 
I  could  ever  tie  anything  up  so  snug  and  com- 
fortable as  that.  \ou  must  look  at  it  in  the  morning. 
Pieces  of  wolf-skin,  and  fox-skin,  and  all  sorts  of  things 
are  fastened  together  with  strings  stripped  from  some 
kind  of  bark.  But  what  I  was  goin  to  say  was,  that, 
with  all  his  rough  looks,  I  can't  help  feelin'  that — well, 
what  I  mean  is  that  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  him  ever 
havin'  to  suffer  any  more  like  he  has  done.  It's  awful, 
father;  and  I  want  to  ask  you  if  we  can'  keep  him  here. 
I'm  sure  he  won't  do  any  one  the  least  bit  of  harm,  and 
he  needn't  be  any  bother,  for  I'll  promise  to  look  after 
him  myself,  and  I'll  do  the  cookin' — I'll  work  hard — I'll 
do  anything,  father,  so't  mother  won't  be  troubled  with 
him  in  any  way,  if  you'll  only  let  me  keep  him." 

"  Why,  Gabrielle,  child,  what  are  yon  going  on  in  this 
way  for?  As  if  I'd  ever  have  the  heart  to  turn  the  old 
man  out.  You  may  do  as  you  wish  with  him,  for  surely 
he  is  yours — only  I'd  like  you  to  get  some  different 
.  clothes  for  him,"  he  added,  looking  down  at  the  uncouth 
heap  by  the  fire. 

"Oh,  I'll  'tend  to  all'  that,"  Gabrielle  replied,  "when 
I  get  him  so  he'll  wear  'em." 

"You  mean  when  you  get  him  tamed." 

"Why,  father,  I  didn't  think  you'd  joke  like  that 
about  it,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  rather  surprised. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  was  joking.  Well,  never  mind. 
I  hope  we'll  know  more  about  him  some  day — know 
something  of  his  past  life.  He  must  have  a  queer 
story,  if  he  could  only  tell  it." 


GABRIELLE  S    STORY. 


191 


They  both  fell  into  a  quiet  study  for  some  minutes, 
and  then  Bonaventure  said: 

"Now,  child,  you'd  better  go  to  bed  and  get  some 
sleep.     I'll  watch  him." 

"  Father,  I'd  rather  not  leave  cither  of  you  to-niuht. 
Somehow  I  want  to  stay  with  you." 

"Then,  dearie,  go  to  sleep  where  you  are." 

"  But  I'm  afraid  I'll  be  heavy  on  your  knee." 

"Ah,  have  I  ever  thought  you  heavy  when  I  was 
holding  you?"  he  asked,  pressing  her  fondly  to  his 
breast. 

"  Father,  there  isn't  another  man  in  all  the  world  like 
you."  Her  left  arm  was  thrown  across  his  chest,  and 
the  hand  lay  over  his  right  shoulder.  Her  head  sank 
upon  the  other  side,  and  the  beautiful  dark  hair  fell  in 
profusion  over  his  arm.     Soon  she  was  fast  asleep. 

Bonaventure  sat  and  gazed  long  and  thoughtfully 
into  the  shimmering  streaks  of  light  from  the  stove. 
He  gazed,  while  the  fire  burned  lower  and  lower,  till  at 
last  but  one  faint  glimmer  held  his  eye.  What  he 
thought  no  one  ever  knew — what  he  felt  he  scarcely 
knew  himself. 


!!f 


XXI. 

PIERRE  AND  THE  WILD  MAN. 

T  T  may  be  imagined  that  there  was  great  excitement 
"•■  around  the  Nonquon  when  the  news  spread  that 
Gabrielle  had  captured  the  wild  ma)i.  People  had  been 
more  or  less  superstitious  about  him  ever  since  it 
became  known  that  there  vas  siich  a  creature  in  exist- 
ence. The  majority  had  insisted  at  first  that  there 
could  not  be  a  wild  man  in  that  vncinity,  and  made 
sport  of  those  who  claimed  to  have  seen  him;  but 
when  one  after  another  stated  emphatically  that  they 
had  caught  passing  glimpses  of  him,  many  of  the  people 
finally  admitted  that  there  must  be  something  in  it. 
And  yet  no  one  cared  to  investigate  the  matter,  so  it 
had  drifted  along  with  an  occasional  humorous  allusion 
to  it,  much  after  the  manner  of  B'gob-sir's  previous 
taunting  display  the  night  Philander  had  first  told 
about  it  in  front  of  Bonaventure's.  Now  when  the 
partially  mythical  repeats  had  developed  into  actual 
facts,  and  the  subject  of  all  this  talk  was  assuredly 
a  human  being,  and  was  safely  housed  at  the  Mc- 
Glorries,  CTiriosity  ran  high.  Gabrielle  was  the  heroine 
of  the  hour.  She  paid  little  attention  to  what  the  peo- 
ple said — that  did  not  interest  her — but  she  watched 
carefully,  day  by  day,  the  changes  in  the  old  man. 
And  surely  no  human  being  ever  changed  more  rapidly 
than  he.  By  the  time  he  had  been  there  a  week  he  had 
fallen  into  the  ways  of  the  household  to  a  wonderful 

(192) 


PIERRE    AND    THE    WILD    MAN. 


193 


dcpfrcc.  He  had  on  a  proper  suit  of  clothes,  he  showed 
not  the  slifjfhtcst  inclination  to  run  away,  and  he  was 
willing  to  cat  at  regular  intervals.  True  he  retained 
many  o^  the  manners  of  the  woods.  He  could  not  be 
induced  to  sleep  in  a  bed,  but  snuggled  down  by  the 
stove  every  night.  It  seemed  more  convenient  for  him 
to  cat  with  his  fingers  than  any  other  way,  and  he 
could  not  tolerate  a  hat  on  his  shaggy  head.  When- 
ever sitting  or  lying,  he  never  rose  without  involun- 
tarily ducking  his  head  as  if  afraid  of  striking  it  against 
something — a  pathetic  memory  of  the  cave.  When 
left  alone  for  any  time,  he  would  pick  up  the  first  sharp 
instrument  he  could  get  and  begin  scratching  on  the 
whitcw:ij-.hed  surface  of  the  logs  forming  the  walls  of 
the  room.  In  this  way  he  had  made  many  queer 
figures  along  the  wall,  and  Gabrielle  was  completely 
puzzled  at  this,  till  one  day  Philander  happened  to  see 
them  and  told  her  they  were  the  counterpart  of  those 
on  the  wall  of  the  cave. 

He  was  most  interesting  whenever  Pierre  came 
around.  It  was  soon  evident  that  he  understood  the 
French  language,  and  he  could  even  speak  a  few  words 
that  Pierre  could  grasp.  It  was  most  amusing  to  see 
the  emphatic  gestures  of  Pierre  when  trj'ing  to  lead 
the  old  man  out  into  a  general  conversation,  and  get 
him  to  relate  something  about  himself. 

**  What  are  you  sa3'ing  to  him?"  asked  Bonavcnturc 
one  day  as  they  were  all  sitting  around,  and  Pierre  was 
laboring  with  the  extreme  vividness  of  his  nature. 

"I  ax  him,"  said  Pierre,  impressivcl}',  "  af  he  got  a 
waf." 

"Oh,  you  fool,  Pierre!  "  broke  in  (kibricllc,  in  disgust. 

But   evidently  the  old   man  understood    Pierre   better 
13 


194 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


than  she  thought,  for  he  was  trying  to  say  something. 
Pierre  listened  intently,  and  then  turned  triumphantly 
to  the  others: 

"  I  tol'  you — dass  all  right.  He  know.  He  say  he 
hain't  got  no  waf.  Bot — hoi'  on — wass  dat? "  he  sud- 
denly asked,  forgetting  his  T^rench,  as  the  old  man  was 
stammering  something,  and  motioning  with  his  hand. 

"  A-h-h-h."  And,  after  listening  a  moment  more,  he 
continued:  *'  I  teenk  he  say  he  got  a  Icetle  boy — 'bout 
so  high,"  measuring  a  short  distance  above  his  knee.  "  I 
teenk — wall,  I  dunno." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  anything,"  said  Gabriellc,  whose 
burning  desire  to  learn  something  definite  about  the  old 
man  outstripped  her  judgment  in  giving  Pierre  his  just 
due.     She  knew  the  old  man  had  no  little  boy. 

But  Pierre  was  able  to  understand  more  and  more  of 
his  talk  as  time  went  on,  and  some  of  it  turned  out 
extremely  interesting,  as  we  shall  see. 


XXII. 
ONE   SUNDAY   NIGHT. 


T^HERE  was  one  individual  in  the  ncijji^hborhood  who 
found  it  difficult  to  tell  whether  he  was  j^oin^  to 
like  or  to  hate  the  old  man.  He  was  certain  that  he 
should  do  cither  one  or  the  other,  for  it  appeared  to 
him  that  his  interests  were  to  be  largely  affected  l)y  his 
advent.  That  was  Donald,  He  was  inclined  to  look 
favorably  on  him  in  one  way,  for  it  gave  him  an  excuse 
for  frequent  visits  to  the  McGlorries,  and  Donald 
always  required  some  excuse  other  than  the  true  one 
for  visiting  the  home  of  the  little  bewitching,  black- 
eyed  French  girl.  He  lacked  the  courage  to  court 
Gabrielle  in  an  open-handed  manner,  as  he  should  have 
done,  and  looked  upon  any  unusual  occurrence  which 
brought  him  into  her  presence  as  a  fortunate  chance. 
In  every  fiber  of  his  nature  he  was  reticent  and  bashful. 
This  was  doubly  emphasized  when  Gabrielle  was 
around.  He  was  probably  a  little  afraid  of  her;  in  any 
event  he  felt  more  awkward,  and  seemed  to  make  more 
mistakes — so  he  considered  them — when  her  03^08  were 
upon  him.  He  could  not  quite  understand  her,  any 
more  than  could  manj^  others  arotmd  the  Nonquon,  but 
he  loved  her — there  was  no  doubt  about  that.  He  had 
not  been  permitted  to  see  much  of  her  since  that  last 
night  of  the  revival,  and  when  he  did  see  her  it  was 
always  when  some  one  else  was  present.  ?Ie  had  not 
the  ingenuity  of  the  ordinary  lover  to  plan  means  of 

(195) 


196 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


seeing  the  object  of  his  love  alone,  so  he  had  to  put  up 
with  the  meager  satisfaction  of  an  occasional  chance 
meeting.  And,  truth  to  tell,  these  chance  meetings  of 
kite  had  been  productive  of  much  doubt  and  foreboding 
in  his  mind.  He  watched  closely  for  some  evidence 
that  her  manner  on  the  evening  of  their  walk  home 
from  the  revival  had  meant  something  more  than  a 
passing  fancy  of  hers,  but  he  was  disappointed;  worse 
than  this,  he  was  ahiiost  discouraged.  It  seemed  she 
ignored  him  more  than  ever.  She  scarcely  ever  spoke 
to  him  unless  it  was  absolutely  necessary,  and  appeared 
to  be  so  interested  in  the  old  man  she  had  rescued  that 
she  had  no  thought  for  the  Scotch  boy  at  all.  This  was 
the  point  which  raised  the  idea  in  Donald's  mind  as  to 
whether  it  would  not  be  the  proper  thing  for  him  to  hate 
the  old  fellow.  Had  there  been  a  young  man  in  the 
case,  he  certainly  should  have  been  aroused;  and  what 
appeared  to  be  the  very  crowning  climax  of  his  trouble, 
a  young  man  did  appear  in  the  case,  and  Donald  was 
aroused. 

The  young  man  was  none  other  than  the  Rev.  Amos 
Springle,  the  very  one  whoin  Donald  would  have 
selected  as  his  most  dangerous  rival.  He  had  heard  it 
circulated  quite  freely  among  the  gossips  that  the  min- 
ister was  in  the  habit,  each  vSunday,  of  putting  in  more 
of  his  time  at  the  McGlorries  than  was  absolutely 
necessary  or  consistent  with  his  duties  as  pastor.  The 
fact  was  not  to  be  mistaken  that  Mr.  Springle  took  an 
unusual  interest  in  the  French  girl,  even  though  she 
had  withstood  the  fervent  appeals  of  Prosper  on  the 
memorable  night  of  the  revival.  Possibly  he  took  an 
interest  in  her  because  she  had  withstood  those  appeals. 
In  any  event  he  unwisely  set  the  tongues  in  his  congrega- 


ONE    SUNDAY    NIGHT. 


197 


tion  to  waj^-jj^ing  by  his  repeated  visits  at  Bonaventure's. 
When  Donald  beeamc  aware  of  the  frequency  of  these 
visits — reports  had  been  greatly  exaj^j^erated  to  him — 
he  was  in  despair  at  first,  and  then,  sagely  shaking  his 
good  Seotch  head,  he  resolved  on  a  plan:  "I'll  go 
down  the  next  time  he  eonies,  and  I'll  see  for  myself. 
I'd  he  a  fool  to  let  him  get  (iabrielle  away  from  me,  for 
he  couldn't  begin  to  love  her  like  I  do.  How  could  he, 
when  he's  only  known  her  so  short  a  time?  Why,  I've 
seen  her  day  in  and  out  for  so  long  now  that  I  know 
her  every  acti(Mi,  I  know  just  how  she  walks,  how  she 
runs,  how  she  drops  down  on  one  knee  to  tie  little  Den- 
nie's  cap-strings  under  his  chin,  how  she  buttons  his 
coat  snug  up  to  his  neck,  how  she  tucks  his  mittens 
under  his  coat-sleeves,  how  she  makes  him  warm  and 
comfortable  whenever  lie  goes  out  with  her;  and  how 
she  does  the  same  thing  for  her  father,  only  she  has  to 
reach  up  instead  of  stooping  down — and  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  which  way  !;he  loo'.is  best.  Oh,"  he  contin- 
ued, with  more  feeling,  *'  I've  seen  her  do  all  these 
things  so  many  times,  and  I've  seen  her  moving  around 
the  house  helping  her  mother,  and  it  always  seemed 
she  could  do  her  work  in  half  the  time  other  folks  could; 
and  then  I've  seen  her  bending  over  little  Allie  Farley 
when  she  was  sick  one  time,  with  such  a  look  on  her 
face  as  if  she'd  rather  have  been  sick  herself;  and  I've 
seen  her  climb  upon  her  father's  knee,  and  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and — oh,  I  can't  bear  it!  I  can't  think 
of  her  marrying  any  one  else.  No  one  could  love  her 
like  I  do.  This  preacher,  what  does  he  know  about 
her?  He  never  could  love  her  as  she  ought  to  be  loved; 
he  doesn't  know  her  well  enough.  I'm  going  down 
next  time  he  comes."     And  he  did. 


198 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


It  was  tho  following  Sunday,  and  the  minister  had 
driven  strai^^ht  to  I3(niavcntiire's  before  service,  with 
the  ostensible  purpose,  as  he  said,  of  seeing  how  the  old 
man  had  1)een  j^etting  along-  since  his  last  visit  to  the 
Nonquon.  It  seemed  at  the  old  man  was  proving  a 
rather  prolific  source  of  excuse  for  Gabrielle's  suitors. 
Mrs.  McGlorrie  insisted  on  the  minister  having  his 
horse  put  out  and  taking  tea  with  them  before  church. 
After  supper  Dennie  and  his  mother  accompanied  the 
minister  to  church,  leaving  Gabrielle  and  her  father 
home  with  the  old  man.  In  the  course  of  the  evening 
Donald  dropped  in,  and  he  and  Bonaventure  were 
busily  engaged  talking  about  the  work  at  the  shanty 
when  the  others  came  from  church.  Gabrielle  had 
busied  herself  with  the  old  man  all  evening,  and  had 
shunned  Donald  so  pointedly  that  it  stung  him  severely, 
and  set  him  to  thinking  harder  than  ever.  He  was 
determined  to  watch  closely  the  relations  between  her 
and  the  minister.  Instantly  on  the  arrival  of  the  church- 
goers .she  was  all  smiles,  and  as  full  of  life  as  a  cricket. 
Donald's  heart  sank  with  a  terrible  sense  of  despair 
when  he  noticed  the  sudden  change  that  had  come  over 
her.  The  case  had  gone  farther  even  than  he  had  been 
led  to  believe  by  the  gossips,  and  he  was  almost  desper- 
ate. He  had  never  seen  her  act  so  bewitchingly  charm- 
ing as  she  was  acting  now;  and  when  he  thought  that  all 
of  these  charms  were  displayed  for  the  benefit  of  some 
one  else,  who  was  almost  like  a  stranger  to  them  all,  he 
could  scarcely  contain  himself.  And  the  minister,  too, 
was  in  the  best  of  spirits.  Donald  thought  he  had 
never  heard  any  one  talk  so  brilliantly  as  he  did — and 
he  hated  him  for  it.  Why  could  he  not  have  the  gift  of 
speech  in  this  way,  so  that  he  might  prove  attractive, 


ONE    SUNDAY    NIGHT, 


190 


instead  of  being  oblij^cd  to  sit  dejectedly  in  one  corner 
and  feel  himself  completely  humiliated  and  ignored?  It 
was  the  darkest  hour  he  had  ever  known,  and  he  was 
quite  appalled  to  find  how  seriously  the  thing  affected 
him.  He  never  knew  till  then  how  utterly  imhappy 
life  would  be  without  Gabrielle.  He  never  knew  how 
much  he  loved  her.  It  was  like  tearing  asunder  his 
own  heartstrings.  He  blamed  himself  for  not  having 
pushed  his  suit  with  all  the  vehemence  of  his  soul 
months  ago,  before  this  other  man  came  along,  with  his 
polish,  his  glitter,  and  his  winning  tongue.  It  was 
terrible  to  feel  as  Donald  felt  then. 

When  it  came  time  for  the  minister  to  go,  Ronaven- 
ture  went  out  to  hitch  his  h(jrse  to  the  cutter,  and 
Donald  rushed  after  him  to  help.  He  could  not  toler- 
ate the  idea  of  remaining  in  the  house  another  minute. 
He  felt  stifled  and  desperate,  and  was  glad  of  something 
to  take  him  out  into  the  open  air.  When  the  horse  was 
driven  up  to  the  house,  the  minister  was  standing  at 
the  doorstep  putting  on  his  driving-gloves.  Gabrielle 
and  her  mother  had  come  to  the  door  to  see  him  off. 
The  night  was  beautifully  clear  and  moonlight,  and  the 
bells  jingled  rhythmically  to  the  tread  of  the  horse. 

"  Oh,  what  a  lovely  horse!  "  exclaimed  Gabrielle. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  a  drive  after  him?"  asked  the 
minister,  delighted  at  her  praise. 

"  '  Course  I  would." 

He  looked  around  a  moment,  quickly  studying  the 
situation.  He  was  bent  on  having  her  see  what  a  really 
fine  horse  he  had,  and  yet  it  was  hardly  appropriate  for 
a  minister  to  be  seen  driving  through  the  village  Sun- 
day evening  after  church  with  a  young  lady  as  his  only 
companion. 


200 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


?li!'l! 


MM 


m> 


"Jump  in,  Mr.  McFarlanc,"  he  said  to  Donald,  "and 
we  three  will  ^o  for  a  short  drive.  The  eiitter  is  large 
enough.  Get  on  your  wraps,"  he  eontinued,  turning  to 
Gabriel Ic.  Away  she  went,  and  socni  eame  out  with 
her  most  beeoming  winter  hood  tied  tightly  under  her 
ehin.  She  looked  prettier  than  ever  in  the  moo'dight 
with  that  hood  on  as  she  tripped  lightly  down  the  steps 
and  into  the  eutter.  This  was  wormwood  and  gall  to 
Donald,  but  he  cjuld  do  nothing  else  than  elimb 
clumsily — he  thought  he  never  had  been  so  clumsy 
before — in  with  the  others.  It  seemed  t(j  him  that  he 
was  in  some  manner  aiding  the  minister's  suit,  and  he 
had  never  seemed  so  helpless  in  his  lii'e. 

"I'll  bring  her  back  in  a  little  while,"  sang  out  Mr. 
Springle  to  Bonaventure  and  his  wife  as  he  drove 
away. 

"  Bring  /ut  back,"  said  Donald  to  himself.  "  So  you've 
forgotten  already  that  there's  anybody  else  with  you. 
Well,  I  wish  there  wasn't,  that's  all." 

What  a  jolly  drive  it  was,  for  two  of  them.  ]\Ir. 
Springle  and  Gabriellc  chatted  away  and  laughed,  and 
she  praised  his  horse,  and  he  praised  her  judgment, 
and  they  both  seemed  perfectly  oblivious  to  Donald, 
who  sat  fuming.  He  sincerely  wished  the  cutter  would 
upset,  or  something  happen  to  stop  this  horrible  night- 
mare. He  would  not  have  cared  much  if  they  had  all 
been  injured  badly.  Oh,  hold  on — all  but  Gabriellc.  He 
would  not  have  a  hair  of  her  head  injured  to  save  the 
nation.  But  he  wished  he  might  be  hurt  some  himself 
— he  thought  it  would  feel  good  to  be  hurt;  and  that 
preacher — well,  he  would  not  have  been  a  bit  sorry  to 
see  his  nose  bleeding,  or  something  that  would  make 
him  look  ridiculous,  and   put  him  at  a  disadvantage. 


ONE    SUNJ)AY    N'KiHT. 


201 


They  had  driven  far  over  the  liill  lo  the  south  of  the  vil- 
la«^e,  when  suddenly  Gal)rielle  said  they  must  ^o  back. 

"  But  I  can't  turn  around  here,  on  account  of  the 
snow-banks,"  said  the  minister.  "  I'll  have  to  take  you 
a  little  farther." 

"Oh,  g^oodness!  "  exclaimed  Gabrielle,  "  these  banks 
lead  away  down  past  Jonas  Wicklow's.  We  can  never 
ride  that  far.     Donald  and  I  will  get  out  and  walk  back." 

''Oh  no,  I  can't  allow  that,"  said  the  preacher,  sud- 
denly alarmed  at  the  idea  of  losing-  her  society  so  soon. 
"  It  wouldn't  be  treating  you  very  nicely  to  invite  you 
for  a  drive,  and  then  compel  you  to  walk  home.  I'll 
try  to  turn  around  here." 

"No,  no,"  insisted  Gabrielle.  "You  could  never  get 
the  cutter  around  without  tippin'  it  over,  and  I'd  be 
awful  sorry  to  see  you  get  into  any  trouble  on  our 
account.  No,  stop  the  horse,  and  we'll  step  out  here," 
and  before  he  could  offer  any  protest  she  had  gently 
touched  the  lines  so  that  the  horse  halted,  and  the  next 
instant  she  was  in  the  road  bidding  him  good-night. 

What  he  thought  as  he  drove  away  no  one  ever 
knew.  Probably  he  wished  that  she  used  better  gram- 
mar, and  that  she  was  cut  out  more  after  the  manner 
of  an  ideal  minister's  wife,  but  if  these  thoughts  did 
enter  his  mind,  it  was  probably  not  difficult  to  dispel 
them  with  the  memory  of  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  figure, 
and  her  spirits.  In  any  event,  he  drove  a  long  distance 
with  the  lines  hanging  loosely  over  the  dashboard,  and 
his  eyes  cast  abstractedly  at  the  robe  on  his  \ii\). 

What  Donald  thought  as  he  started  home  by  Ga- 
brielle's  side  may  be  somewhat  conjectured  by  his  first 
remark. 

"  I  wish  he  /la d  i\-psct\  " 


202 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


"What!  "  said  Gabrielle,  looking  up  at  him  quickly. 

"  I  say  I  wish  he  had  upset." 

"  Why,  whatever  do  you  mean?  That's  a  nice  way 
to  talk  about  anybody,  'specially  any  one  like  Mr. 
Springle." 

"  Oh,  I  knoiv  you  think  there  isn't  another  man  on 
earth  like  him,"  he  said,  rather  bitterly. 

"  Well,"  she  remarked,  in  feigned  surprise,  "  don't 
you  think  he's  nice?     I  thought — " 

"  Oh,  what  you  think  about  him  and  what  I  think 
are  two  entirely  different  things,"  he  broke  in.  "  vScems 
we  never  could  agree  to  think  alike  about  anything, 
anyhow,  so  I  suppose  it's  all  right  whatever  you  may 
think  about  him." 

"  Well,  if  that  ain't — why,  whatever  is  the  matter 
with  you  to-night?  " 

"No  more  the  matter  with  me  to-night  than  ever 
there  was." 

"Well,  I  never  knew  you  to  act  like  this  before." 

"  Because  I've  always  been  too  much  of  a  fool."  His 
Scotch  blood  surely  was  up  at  last. 

"  Fool!  Well,  if  you  are  wiser  to-night  than  you  ever 
was  before,  I  don't  know  but — but — I'd  rather — " 

"  You'd  rather  have  me  a  fool  all  my  life,  would 
you?  "  he  interposed,  savagely.  "  I  suppose  you  would, 
but  I'm  not  going  to  be,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

It  was  well  that  they  were  walking  with  the  moon 
behind  them  so  Donald  could  not  see  Gabrielle's  face, 
for  he  probably  v/ould  have  been  much  puzzled  by  it. 
She  held  her  head  demurely  down  as  she  walked  along, 
and  studiously  avoided  looking  up  at  him.  He  inter- 
preted this  as  an  evidence  that  she  wished  to  shun  him 
as  much  as  possible,  and  could  have  sworn  to  himself 


ONE    SUNDAY    NIGHT. 


203 


that  she  was  then  and  there  comparing  him  with  chat 
puppet  of  a  preacher  to  his  immense  disadvantage 
This  made  him  boil  more  than  ever. 

"Gabrielle!  "  he  broke  out  again,  excitedly,  "you  no 
doubt  think  he  is  the  very  pink  of  perfection.  Prob- 
ably he  can  talk  more  politely  than  I  can;  probably  he 
Jias  whiter  hands,  and  a  neater  turned  necktie,  but — 
he—" 

"//r.?"  she  interposed.  "Who  are  you  talking 
about? " 

"  Talking  about!  As  if  you  didn't  know!  I'm  talk- 
ing about  that  young  sprig  of  a  minister — that's  who 
I'm  talking  about — and  you  knew  it  well  enough." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  could  know  it.  You  never  said." 
This  in  a  low,  subdued  voice,  altogether  unlike  her 
usual  retort.  He  thought  she  was  poking  fun  at  him. 
Suddenly  he  halted  and  looked  at  her,  with  his  lip 
quivering.  They  were  just  passing  through  the  village, 
and  he  choked  back  the  utterance  which  rose  to  his 
lips,  for  fear  some  one  might  hear  it.  They  walked  on 
in  silence  till  the  sight  of  Gabrielle's  gate  drove  Don- 
ald to  desperation. 

"  Gabrielle,"  he  began,  with  more  decision  in  his 
voice,  but  less  vehemence,  "  I've  something  to  say  to 
you  to-night.  It  may  do  no  good,  and  I  don't  suppose 
it  will — but  I'm  going  to  say  it.  You  and  I  have 
known  each  other  a  long  time,  and  you  know  what  I 
think  of  you — " 

"  You  never  told  me,"  she  murmured,  in  the  strangest 
little  voice  he  had  ever  heard  from  her  lips.  His  heart 
almost  jumped  into  his  throat  for  an  instant,  and  he 
glanced  quickly  at  her  in  an  inquiring  way.  But  Don- 
ald was  a  sad   blunderer  when   Gabrielle  was  in   the 


204 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


Si!  I 


W' 


V- 


question,  and  he  now  added  one  more  blunder  to  the 
others.  lie  was  so  desperately  dejected  that  it  was  easy 
for  him  to  think  she  was  ag'ain  making  fun  of  him; 
but  he  managed  to  keep  back  the  outburst  that  voi.fj 
within  him,  and  went  on,  with  a  little  more  bitterness 
in  his  tone: 

"That  Mr.  vSpringle  may  be  all  very  fine — I  don't 
care  to  say  anything  against  him — but,  Gabrielle,  he 
hasn't  got  it  in  him  to  love  you  as  I  do.  How  could 
he  ?  He  hasn't  known  you  so  long  as  I  have.  He 
hasn't  seen  so  much  of  you.  He  may  think  he  loves 
you,  and  you  may  think  he  does,  but  it  isn't  like  my 
love.  It  can'/  be.  He  has  other  things  to  think  of, 
while  I  have  nothing  but  you.  He  must  think  of  his 
sermons,  and  his  church  work,  and  his  congregation. 
He  mu>st  study  how  he  can  please  them;  and  there's  lots 
of  his  congregation  that  he  couldn't  please  very  well  by 
marrying  you.  I've  thought  it  all  over  to-night — I've 
thought  what  might  happen — I've  thought  that  perhaps 
he  would  get  you  to — to — thinking  a  good  deal  of  him, 
and  then  in  the  end  yield  to  the  influence  of  some  of 
his  swell  church  folks  down  at  Port  Rowen,  and  not 
marry  you.  I've  thought  of  that,  and  how  you'd  feel, 
and  what  the  folks  around  here  would  say  about  you; 
and,  Gabrielle,  as  I'm  alive,  I've  swore  that  I'd  thrash 
the  man  that  would  treat  you  like  that.  I'd  do  more 
than  that — I  couldn't  help  it — I'd  kill  him!"  growing 
more  excited  and  in  earnest,  and  not  looking  at  Gabri- 
elle at  all.  "I'd  throttle  the  man  who  would  trifle  with 
you,  Gabrielle — I'd  throttle  him  till  his  lying  tongue 
dangled  out  of  his  mouth." 

"DanaM/"  screamed  Gabrielle,  suddenly  throwing 
her  arms  passionately  about  his  neck,  and  looking  up 


ONE    SUNDAY    NIGHT. 


)i05 


into  his  face  with  streaming  eyes.  "  My  darling-,  dar- 
ling, don't!  "  She  was  trembling  like  a  frightened  fawn 
in  his  strong  arms,  as  he  began  raining  frenzied  kisses 
upon  her  face.  That  one  impulsive  instant  had  told  him 
more  than  his  blundering  senses  had  been  able  to  learn 
through  all  the  months  that  were  past;  and  as  the 
moonlight  fell  on  that  upturned  face  of  hers,  it  showed 
him  a  new  light  in  the  dark  eyes  that  filled  his  soul  to 
overflowing. 


XXIII. 
DONALD  AND   GABRIELLE. 


\:/:\ 


I: 


"\  1  rHOSE  right  is  it  to  say  what  happened  in  the  next 
half-hour  after  that  sudden  revelation  in  the 
moonlight  ?  Surely  not  ours.  At  the  end  of  that  time 
they  were  walking  slowly,  arm  in  arm,  back  and  forth 
between  the  gate  and  the  house,  with  apparently  no 
inclination  to  part.  At  last  Gabriellc  suddenly  started 
and  said: 

"Oh  my,  it  must  be  getting  late.  I'd  forgot  all 
about  the  time." 

"So  had  I,"  said  Donald.  "Anyhow,  it's  all  the  same 
to  me  now — early  or  late — it  makes  no  difference." 

"But,  Donald,  dear,  I  must  go  in.  I'm  afraid  we've 
stayed  out  an  awful  long  time.  We've  said  so  many 
things,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  and  I'd  like  to  say  'em  all  over  again." 

"Is  that  because  we  didn't  say  'em  right? "  she  asked, 
looking  up  at  him  archly. 

"No,  no,  you  little  witch.  I'd  like  to  say  them  over 
again  so  I  could  remember  'em." 

"  We'll  remember  them,  Donald.  We'll  never  forget 
to-night;  and  if  we  don't  say  the  same  things  again, 
we'll  say  better  ones." 

"That's  so,"  assented  Donald.  "  Everything  you  say 
is  better  than  what  you  said  before." 

"  You've  learned  to  praise  me  very  soon,"  she  said, 
pinching  his  arm.  "  Why  didn't  you  do  that  long  ago  ? 
I  like  it" 

(200) 


DONALD    AND    GABRIELLE. 


207 


*  I  was  a  big  blundering  fool — that's  why." 

"Now  I'll  put  my  hand  over  your  mouth  if  you  don't 
stop  that." 

"Then  I'll  kiss  it  if  you  do." 

"Well,  hadn't  you  better  kiss  me  good-night,  and 
go?" 

"  I'll  kiss  you  willingly  enough,  but  I  won't  say  good- 
night till  you've  told  me  something  else  I  want  to 
know." 

"Well,  what  is  it,  quiek?     I  must  go  in." 

"  If  you've  loved  me  all  along,  as  you  say — if  it  was 
you  who  put  the  oatmeal-water  in  the  field  for  me 
when  I  was  cradling  against  Miles  Tryne,  if  you've 
done  so  many  of  these  nice  things  on  the  sly  from  me 
— why  is  it  you  treated  the  minister  so  very  nicely 
when  I  was  around  this  evening? " 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  that  old  familiar  roguish 
expression  that  became  her  so  well. 

"  'Cause  I  wanted  you  to  feel  like  I  did  when  I  heard 
about  the  Scotch  girl." 

"The  Scotch  girl?  What  do  you  mean?"  asked 
Donald,  knitting  his  brow. 

"  Never  you  mind,  old  blindy.  I  made  you  feel  that 
way,  anyhow,  only  you  felt  worse  than  I  ever  thought 
you  would;  and,  oh,  Donald!  I'm  so  happy — I'm  so 
happy!  Now  I  must  say  good-night.  You'll  come 
down  to-morrow  evening,  won't  you?  " 

No  need  to  say  that  Donald  promised. 

The  days  flew  rapidly  after  that — how  rapidly  only 
those  who  have  been  in  love  can  tell.  As  with  most 
love  affairs,  there  was  a  certain  degree  of  disaffection 
among  some  of  the  parties  most  interested.  Mrs. 
McFarlane  and  Mrs.  McGlorrie  were  placed  in  a  diffi- 


208 


THE  fu:rmit  of  the  nonquon. 


cult  position.  That  affair  of  the  turnips  was  a  bhick- 
letter  day  in  their  history,  and  was  not  to  be  forgotten. 
The  influence  of  the  revival  on  Mrs.  McGlorrie  had 
passed  away,  and  she  saw  no  incentive  for  making- 
peace  with  the  Scotch  woman.  Truth  to  tell,  she  had 
not  looked  with  favor  on  Donald's  suit,  more  especially 
since  the  new  minister  had  promised  so  likely  a  catch. 
She  had  begun  building  castles  on  the  possibility  of 
having  him  for  a  son-in-law,  and  this  sudden  turn  of 
affairs  had  proved  a  cruel  blow. 

As  for  Mrs.  McFarlane,  she  was  austere  and  stub- 
born, as  usual.  The  only  consoling  thought  was  that 
Donald  had  proved  victorious,  and  she  could  not  help 
inwardly  admiring  Gabrielle  for  her  selection.  It 
flattered  her  somewhat  to  think  that  the  Methodist 
"meenister"  had  been  rejected  for  her  Donald;  and 
besides,  she  remembered  what  Gabrielle  had  said  about 
the  potash  kettle.  So  her  final  reflection  was  that  she 
'*  could  abide  the  girl  a  wee  bit — but  that  mither  o' 
hers — ugh!  " 

Donald  and  Gabrielle  were  walking  up  from  the 
village — he  had  cJianccd  to  meet  her  there — when  he 
said  to  her,  with  a  sly  Scotch  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
"  What  are  we  going  to  do  about  your  mother  and 
mine?" 

"  How  do  you  mean? " 

"  Well,  you  know  they  don't  get  on  well  with  each 
other." 

Gabrielle  could  scarce  repress  a  smile  as  she  remem- 
bered the  sight  of  her  mother's  kitchen  when  she  came 
in  after  the  turnip  episode. 

"  Oh,  they'll  get  on  all  right  in  time.  We'll  make 
'em  like  each  other."     And  she  spoke  with  the  careless 


DONALD    AND   GABRIELLE. 


209 


conviction  that  anything-  was  easy  of  accomplishment 
where  Donald  and  she  were  concerned.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  him  more  earnestly,  and  said:  "  Donald, 
I'm  going  to  make  your  mother  think  more  of  me  than 
she  does.  It's  all  my  fault  that  she  doesn't  like  mc. 
I'm  meaner'n  dirt  sometimes,  and  I  don't  see  how  any- 
body can  think  anything  of  me.  I  don't  see  how  you 
could.     I  guess  you  must  be  a  little  soft." 

Donald  was  willing  to  be  called  soft  imder  the  cir- 
cumstances, but  hd  did  not  agree  with  Gabriellc. 

"  I  can't  see  any  of  your  meanness,  as  you  call  it,  and 
I  don't  want  you  to  talk  like  that  about  yourself." 

"  But  I  am,  Donald,  and  I  can't  help  it.  I  say  the 
meanest  things  before  I  ever  think.  Why,  look  at  the 
way  I  abuse  poor  old  B'gob-sir — I  even  give  him  that 
nickname;  and  I  tease  him  sometimes  till  I'm 
ashamed  of  myself.  First  thing  I  know  something 
pops  into  my  head,  then  it's  onto  my  tongue,  then  out 
it  comes,  and  the  mischief's  done.  I  think  it  over  after- 
ward, and  I  feel  like  crawlin'  on  my  hands  and  knees  to 
the  person  I've  abused  and  takin'  it  all  back  a  thousand 
times.  Donald,"  and  she  impulsivel  '  took  his  arm  in 
both  her  hands,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  in  a  serious 
way,  while  her  voice  fell  almost  to  a  whisper,  "  when- 
ever I  make  a  blunder  and  say  a  mean  thing  to  you, 
jest  forget  the  mean  thing,  and  think  of  mc  crawlin'  on 
my  hands  and  knees  to  you,  for  that's  what  I'll  want 
to  be  doin'  next  minute." 

He  had  never  seen  her  in  such  a  meek  mood  before, 
and  this  new  phase  of  her  nature  touched  him  very 
tenderly. 

"Bless  your  pretty  heart,"  he  exclaimed,  "don't 
talk  to  me  in  that  way.     Blunder!     Why,  you  never 

14 


Ili'i!.. 


210 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


made  a  blunder  in  your  life.  Think  of  me!  I'm  the 
one  that  blunders.  Seems  to  me  I've  done  nothing  but 
blunder  when  you  were  near  me  ever  since  I  knew 
you.  Why,  the  very  way  I  won  you  at  last  was  only  a 
big  blunder  on  my  part.  I  didn't  know  X  was  doing  it. 
I  simply  bhmdered  onto  my  happiness.     Think  of  it!  " 

"Oh,  Donald,  that  was  a  lovely  blunder,"  she  said, 
smiling  through  moist  eyes.  "  I  wish  mine  would  turn 
out  as  well  as  that." 

So  may  we  all  wish. 


XXIV. 

BACK  TO  LIFE. 

A  S  time  went  on  Pierre  and  the  hermit,  as  he  was 
-^*-  now  known,  were  able  to  commimicate  more 
freely  with  each  other.  Besides  this,  a  very  decided 
change  had  taken  place  in  the  faculties  of  the  wild 
man.  He  could  properly  be  called  by  that  name  no 
longer.  He  began  to  come  to  himself,  and  to  construct 
a  trembling  bridge  across  the  chasm  made  by  his  long 
hermitage.  He  slowly  struggled  to  arrange  matters 
definitely  in  his  mind,  and  the  struggle  was  not  alto- 
gether in  vain.  He  was  finally  able  to  assign  the  peo- 
ple about  him  to  their  proper  relationship,  and  to 
realize  their  identity.  At  first  they  had  seemed  to  him 
merely  abstract  beings,  who  fed  him  and  made  him 
warm,  and  who  would  not  injure  him.  To  be  sure,  he 
had  been  differently  impressed  by  these  different  beings 
from  the  beginning,  as  we  have  seen,  but  his  remnant 
of  a  mind  appeared  to  be  in  confusion,  and  the  impres- 
sions seemed  wholly  instinctive.  Certain  things  and 
sounds  struck  responsive  chords  in  his  nature,  as,  for 
instance,  the  speech  of  Pierre,  the  sight  of  Dcnnic,  and 
above  all,  the  voice  and  presence  of  Gabrielle.  But  the 
response  had  been  such  as  might  be  expected  from  a 
well-disposed  dog,  who  had  been  lost  for  a  long  time 
and  afterward  found  himself  with  persons  who  some- 
how appeared  familiar  to  him.  There  was  no  intelli- 
gent reasoning  between  the  past  and  the  present,  any 

(211) 


212 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


I*' 


more  than  there  would  have  been  with  the  clog.  In 
fact  his  long  isolation  from  humanity  had  perceptibly 
dulled  many  of  his  human  attributes,  and  he  had 
drifted  perilously  near  to  a  total  eclipse  of  his  finer 
mental  faculties. 

It  required  some  time  for  him  to  right  himself  about 
and  obtain  his  proper  bearings.  It  called  for  many 
mental  gymnastics,  to  jiunp  hither  and  thither  over 
his  former  experiences,  and  weave  together  the  tangled 
skeins  so  that  he  might  reason  logically  as  to  events 
and  their  connection  with  himself.  He  had  suffered  a 
mild  form  of  insanity — a  sort  of  blank-mindedness — as 
the  result  of  his  hermitage,  and  his  awakening  to  a 
proper  realization  of  things,  though  not  so  sudden  as 
with  some  insane  people,  was  certainly  as  decisive.  He 
could  be  seen  sitting  for  hours  at  a  time  in  a  dazed 
sort  of  study,  from  which  he  would  sometimes  awaken 
with  a  start  and  look  curiously  about  him.  On  one  of 
these  occasions  Gabrielle  was  watching  him  closely,  as 
she  had  noticed  that  he  was  more  restless  of  late,  and 
thought  that  something  unusual  was  passing  in  his 
mind.  He  was  in  his  favorite  nook  by  the  south  wall, 
where  the  April  sun  fell  full  upon  him,  and  he  had 
been  there  so  long  that  Gabrielle  had  almost  concluded 
it  best  to  arouse  him  from  his  reverie.  Just  a.':  she  was 
about  to  do  this,  she  noticed  some  imdue  agitation 
stirring  him.  He  began  nervously  to  work  his  hands 
and  mutter  to  himself.  He  shook  his  head  slowly  from 
side  to  side,  as  if  turning  .something  in  his  mind,  and 
finally  jumped  to  his  feet  with  much  decision  and 
looked  around.  As  soon  as  he  saw  Gabrielle,  he  a.sked 
for  Pierre.  He  seemed  to  realize  that  no  one  but 
Pierre  could  understand  him. 


BACK    TO    LIFE. 


213 


That  individual  had  assumed  a  great  importance  in 
the  vicinity  by  this  time,  on  account  of  being  the  only 
available  interpreter  for  the  old  man.  When  informed 
by  Dennie,  whom  Gabrielle  had  sent  across  to  the 
shanty,  that  **  Gabc's  old  feller  "  wanted  to  see  him,  he 
precipitately  dropped  everything  and  marched  off  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  was  badly  needed  almost  every- 
where. 

When  the  old  man  saw  him  coming  he  immediately 
ran  to  meet  him  and  commenced  talking  very  earnestly. 
Pierre  listened  with  a  great  deal  of  gravity  at  first,  but 
soon  began  to  take  on  some  of  the  old  man's  excite- 
ment. Finally  he  turned  to  Gabrielle,  with  wide-open 
eyes,  and  said: 

"Wall!  By  golly,  he  remember!  He  ax  me  raght 
off  hces  name.     He  live  one  tam — " 

"  What's  his  name? "  asked  Gabrielle,  unable  to  con- 
tain herself. 

"  Hees  name  Baptiste  Chaquette." 

"That's  French,  isn't  it?  I  wish  father  was  here." 
She  was  growing  wildly  excited. 

"Franch!  Didn't  I  tol'  you?  I  ax  you  raght  off  dat 
odder  night  w'en  he  cam.  Deedn't  I  tol'  you  he  spick 
Franch?  Yaas — wass  dat?"  suddenly  turning  to  the 
old  man,  who  was  trying  to  get  his  ear.  After  listen- 
ing a  moment,  he  again  turned  to  Gabrielle  with  the 
remark  that  the  old  man  would  like  to  have  his  things 
brought  from  the  cave. 

"  Of  course  he  shall  have  'em,"  said  Gabrielle,  touched 
somewhat  tenderly  by  the  appeal.  "  I  do  wish  father 
was  here.  I  can't  stand  it  till  he  comes  in  from  the 
shanty.  Where's  Philander,  I  wonder?  Where's — oh, 
the  men  are  never  around  when   they're  wanted.    I 


li^ 


214 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


I^^> 


wish  I  was  a  man."  vShe  was  impetuous  and  rattle- 
headed, as  usual.  "  Tell  him  we'll  get  the  things  for 
him  as  soon  as  we  can,  and  ask  him  how  he  come  to  be 
over  in  that  awful  place,  and  who  he  is,  and  where  he 
came  from,  and  who  his  folks  are,  and  if  they  know 
where  he  is,  and — and — what  are  you  standin'  there  for, 
starin'  at  me  with  your  mouth  wide  open  as  if  you 
didn't  hear  me?  Pierre,  you're  an  awful  fool  when  you 
want  to  be,"  she  ccncluded,  in  disgust. 

Pierre  may  well  be  excused  for  some  slight  inability 
to  grasp  the  present  situation  in  all  of  its  bearings,  for 
the  difficulty  of  harmonizing  the  answers  of  one  indi- 
vidual who  was  obliged  to  stop  and  think  and  stammer 
a  great  deal  with  the  questions  of  another  who 
required  half  a  dozen  answered  at  once  was  enough  to 
appall  even  a  better  man  than  Pierre. 

But  the  whole  matter  came  out  in  due  time,  and 
though  Gabrielle  did  not  learn  as  much  on  the  present 
occasion  as  she  wished,  yet  she  was  well  rewarded  for 
waiting  when  the  story  was  finally  told.  This  event 
happened  an  evening  or  two  later.  Gabrielle  had  sent 
over  to  the  cave  the  day  following  the  old  man's 
request,  and  had  all  of  its  queer  contents  brought  home. 
The  sight  of  these  things — most  of  them  yellow  with 
age — stirred  the  old  man  strangely,  and  seemed  to 
recall  many  memories  of  bygone  days.  One  thing 
especially,  an  old  frayed  letter,  was  carefully  scanned, 
and  placed  with  a  sigh  in  his  pocket. 

The  night  of  the  story  several  people  had  dropped  in 
at  Bonaventure's  to  listen  to  Pierre's  interpretation,  the 
old  man  having  promised  that  he  would  tell  them  all 
the  facts  of  his  life  as  accurately  as  he  could  remember 
them.     The    group    consisted    of    Philander,   Donald, 


BACK    TO    LIFE. 


215 


Bonaventure  and  his  family,  and  old  B'gob-sir,  who  had 
entirely  recovered  from  his  fright  at  the  wild  man. 

The  story  is  too  long  to  allow  Pierre  to  tell  it  in  his 
own  theatrical,  disjointed  manner,  and  its  recital  must 
be  left  to  the  old  man  himself.  Seated  in  the  midst  of 
his  listeners,  with  the  flickering  fire-light  shining 
through  the  cracks  of  the  stove  and  darting  across  his 
roughened  face  with  brighter  illumination  than  that 
made  by  the  feeble  candle  on  the  table,  he  began. 


T 


XXV. 

THE  OLD   MAN'S  STORY. 

<(  T  AM  French.  My  name  is  Baptiste  Chaquette.  I 
-'■  was  born  in  Lower  Canada,  near  the  old  village 
of  Sorel,  between  Montreal  and  Quebec,  I  was  a  happy 
youth,  light-hearted  and  thoughtless.  I  had  a  compan- 
ion, Leon  Bolio,  and  we  were  constantly  together. 
Everyone  said  that  nothing  could  separate  Leon  and  L 
But  something  finally  did  separate  us.  We  fell  in  love 
with  the  same  girl,  and  became  deadly  enemies. 
Angelique  Demerse  was  her  name.  She  was  the  fair- 
est creature  that  ever  smiled  on  a  suitor."  Here  he 
cast  one  of  those  curious  glances  of  his  in  the  direction 
of  Gabrielle.  It  was  something  of  the  same  scrutiny 
that  he  had  given  her  when  he  first  saw  her  in  the 
woods.     Then  he  went  on: 

"Angelique  gave  her  heart  to  me,  and  we  were 
married.  Everyone  said  that  Leon  would  kill  me,  but 
he  didn't  do  that.  He  dare  not.  He  was  no  match  for 
me  in  any  contest.  I  was  quicker,  stronger,  and 
heavier — always  had  been  as  we  were  boys  together — so 
that  he  did  not  dare  to  attack  me  openly.  Had  he 
killed  me  by  stealth,  the  villagers  would  have  killed 
him,  and  he  knew  it.  They  said  we  both  had  a  fair 
field,  and  I  had  won,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  But 
he  did  something  worse  than  to  kill  me.  The  rankling 
in  his  heart  grew  deeper  and  deeper  as  he  saw  how 
happy  Angelique  and  I  were.     People  told  him  he  had 

(216) 


THE    OLD    MAN  S   STORY. 


217 


better  go  away  from  Sorel  if  he  did  not  like  to  see  us 
living  together,  but  he  said  no,  he  would  not  go  away, 
he  would  stay  and  make  us  unhappy  yet.  And  he  did 
make  us  unhappy.     We  had  a  little  son — a  little  boy — " 

"  Deedn't  I  tol'  you? "  cried  Pierre,  stopping  short  in 
hio  interpretation  and  turning  to  Gabrielle.  "  Deedn't 
I  tol'  you  he  got  leetle  boy?     I  ccl'  you  about — " 

"  Oh,  shut  your  mouth,"  snapped  Gabrielle.  "  Do 
shut  your  mouth  about  what  you  told  me,  and  go  on 
and  tell  us  what  he  tells  you." 

Pierre  subsided,  and.  the  old  man  continued: 

'•  We  had  a  little  boy,  the  brightest-eyed  and  burliest 
little  fellow  in  all  the  world.  How  we  loved  him!  It's 
only  a  memory  with  me  now,"  he  said,  looking 
abstractedly  into  the  fire,  "but  what  a  memory! 
Angelique  must  love  a  thing  with  all  her  heart  or  not 
at  all.  She  loved  this  little  boy  more  than  anything 
else  on  earth,  except  me,  perhaps,  and  I — well,  I  wor- 
shiped him.  It  frightens  me  now  to  think  how  much 
I  loved  him;  but  I  couldn't  help  it,  he  was  so  like — so 
like  Angelique  and — me.  He  grew  up  till  he  could 
talk,  and  play,  and  be  happy,  and  then  one  day  we 
missed  him.  Search  through  the  village  as  we  would, 
we  could  not  find  him.  Leon  disappeared  at  the  same 
time,  and  then  we  knew  it  all.  He  had  stolen  our 
little  boy.  Well  he  saw  what  v.-ould  hurt  us  most. 
You  don't  know  what  that  means,  to.  have  your  little 
boy  stolen — and  such  a  boy!  We  thought  he  would 
cross  the  line  into  the  States,  and  we  went  there. 
Then  we  searched  in  all  directions,  but  never  got  a 
clue. 

"Angelique — well,  I  don't  want  to  think  of  Angelique. 
It  broke  her  poor  heart.     She  lived  on  in  a  sort  of  way, 


218 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


I  I'll 


but  was  no  longer  the  Angelique  of  before.  She  would 
sigh  in  her  sleep,  and  reach  out  her  arms,  and  call  for 
her  little  boy.  That  was  awful  for  me.  Once  she 
dreamed  she  saw  him.  *Oh,  Baptiste!  I've  got  him! 
I've  got  him!  He's  come  back!  Our  little — '  Then  she 
awoke,  and — oh!  I  can't  tell  about  that!  "  He  sud- 
denly stopped,  and  leaning  forward,  let  his  face  drop 
into  his  hands,  and  with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees, 
swayed  back  and  forth  for  some  moments  in  silence. 
Then  he  slowly  raised  himself,  and  looking  absently  at 
the  ceiling,  he  continued: 

"  She  died  soon  after  that,  and  we  buried  her,  and  I 
was  alone.  That  was  worse  than  anything  yet — to  lose 
Angelique.  People  were  kind  to  me,  but  I  could  hear 
them  say  as  I  passed  them  on  the  street,  *  He'll  go 
insane.'  They  little  knew.  It  would  have  been  a 
relief  to  go  insane.  I  could  have  forgotten  then,  but 
now  I  could  do  nothing  but  remember.  One  day, 
years  after,  a  letter  came  to  me.  This  is  it,"  producing 
the  yellow  scrap  of  paper  from  his  pocket  and  handing 
it  to  Pierre  to  ^ead. 

Gabrielle  seized  the  snuffers  and  snuffed  the  candle, 
to  increase  the  light.  But  Pierre  could  make  nothing 
of  the  letter.  It  was  so  old  and  dim,  and  anyhow  it  is 
doubtful  if  Pierre  could  have  read  it  if  it  had  been 
newly  written.     He  shook  his  head. 

"  What!  "  exclaimed  the  old  man  in  surprise.  "  Can't 
read  that?  Why,  every  word  is  plain.  I  can  see  the 
letters  standing  right  out  on  the  paper." 

It  is  probable  that  his  imagination  aided  him  much 
in  this,  for  the  letter  was  perfectly  illegible  to  others. 

"  Well,  I  don't  need  to  read  it.  I  can  tell  you  what's 
in  it  without  that.     I  couldn't  forget  it  if  I  tried.     It 


THE    OLD   MAN  S   STORY. 


319 


was   written  from   one   of  the   Southern   States,   and 
reads: 

"  *  B  aftiste:  I'm  dying-.  The  yellow  fever  is  here,  and 
they  say  I've  got  it.  I  don't  know  if  they'll  let  this  letter 
through  the  quarantine  to  reaeh  you  or  not,  but  I  must 
write  it.  I  stole  your  little  Bonaventure,  because,  Bap- 
tiste,  I  hated  you.  I  hate  you  now,  but  I  love  Angelique. 
I  love  her  as  much  as  I  did  when  you  took  her  away  from 
me  years  ago.  For  her  sake  I  send  you  this.  I  took 
the  boy  to  Montreal.  Then  I  was  afraid  you'd  find  me, 
and  I  started  west  into  Upper  Canada.  I  traveled  with 
him  day  and  night  for  a  time,  getting  more  and  more 
afraid  that  you'd  follow  mc.  One  night  I  stopped  with 
him  at  a  country  tavern,  somewhere  on  what  they 
called  the  Kingston  Road.  I  left  him  there,  telling  the 
people  I  would  go  back  for  him  next  day;  but  I  never 
went — I  was  afraid.  I  came  quickly  to  this  country, 
and  here  I  am.  I  write  you  this  before  I  die,  so  that, 
after  all  these  years,  there  may  be  a  slight  chance  that 
you  can  find  him.  This  for  Angelique.  For  her  sake 
I  hope  you  may  succeed.  As  soon  as  I  think  of  you,  I 
hope  you  won't.  Leon.'  " 

The  letter,  as  might  be  expected,  produced  a  wonder- 
ful effect  on  them  all,  but  there  was  one  individual 
especially  who  was  more  intensely  agitated  than  the 
others  at  its  close.  This  was  Bonaventure.  Gabrielle 
was  astonished  to  see  her  father  begin  to  catch  for 
breath,  and  stare  strangely  at  old  Baptistc,  while  the 
letter  was  being  interpreted  by  Pierre.  He  approached 
Pierre  as  soon  as  it  was  done,  and  with  a  face  pale  from 
excitement,  he  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  said,  in  a 
voice  husky  almost  to  a  whisper: 


m 


■I  ! 


2^0 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


"  What  did  he  say  that  little  boy's  name  was  in  the 
letter? " 

Pierre  looked  in  astonishment  at  Bonaventiire,  and 
could  not  understand  the  terrible  stress  that  seemed  to 
suddenly  come  upon  him.  He  had  never  seen  Bona- 
venture  act  like  this  before.     Neither  had  Gabrielle. 

'*  Why,"  said  Pierre,  "  you  maght  remamber.  Sem 
name  yours.     He  say  dat  name  Bonaventure." 

"  For  God's  sake,  Pierre,  ask  the  old  man  how  he'd 
know  his  little  boy.  Ask  him  if  there  was  any  mark  or 
anything  on  him." 

Pierre  stared  somewhat  stupidly  at  Bonaventure  a 
moment,  unable  to  make  out  any  just  cause  for  such 
terrible  excitement. 

"Ask  him,  you  fool!"  suddenly  exclaimed  Gabrielle, 
who  could  not  wait  an  instant. 

Pierre  began  jabbering  away  to  the  old  man — Gabri- 
elle always  brought  him  to  his  senses — and  soon  Bap- 
tiste  started  to  answer.  Bonaventure  saw  him  put  his 
hand  around  to  his  back  as  best  he  could,  to  indicate 
something  that  he  was  describing  to  Pierre,  and  sud- 
denly he  began  to  tremble  more  than  ever. 

**  He  say,"  said  Pierre,  "  hees  leetle  boy  got  wan,  two, 
tree — what  you  call  'em?  Leetle — "  he  began  to  scratch 
his  head  to  get  the  English  word.  "Wan,  two,  tree 
leetle  ivarts — no,  not  dat.     Ah — " 

"  Moles? "  suggested  Bonaventure,  scarcely  above  his 
breath. 

"  Yaas — yaas.  Dat's  de  ting.  Tree  leetle  moles  on 
de  top  of  hees  beck." 

^^  Mon  Dicii!    Mon  Dieuf     Pierre,  he's  my  fatJier!  " 

"  Your  w'at?     Your—" 

"  Yes,  yes,  Pierre,  he's  my  father — that  old  man  is  my 


THE    OLD   MAN  S   STORY. 


221 


father!  Oh,  Gabriellc,  my  child,  my  child,"  turning 
quickly  to  her  and  seizing-  her  in  his  arms,  "you've 
saved  my  poor  old  fatlicr,  you've  brought  him  home  to 
me.     Oh,  mon  Dictt,  vion  Dicu!  what  an  hour  is  thi;  ! " 

It  may  be  imagined  that  the  little  group,  who  were  by 
this  time  standing  around  in  the  center  of  the  room, 
were  deeply  moved  by  the  tmexpected  development. 
Old  Baptiste  sat  staring  queerly  at  them,  imable  to 
make  out  what  it  all  meant. 

"Tell  him,  Pierre,"  said  Gabriellc,  with  the  tears 
streaming  down  her  checks.  "  Tell  him.  He'll  be  the 
happiest  one  of  all  to  find  it  out." 

Pierre's  love  of  the  theatrical  came  prominently  to 
the  surface  at  once.  This  was  the  most  important 
interpretation  he  had  yet  been  called  upon  to  make, 
and  he  proposed  that  it  should  be  done  in  a  manner 
worthy  its  greatness.  He  struck  a  dramatic  attitude, 
and  pointing  his  finger  at  Bonaventurc,  proceeded  very 
impressively  with  his  information. 

The  others  saw  the  old  man  watching  him  closely  as 
he  spoke,  and  presently  he  began  to  tremble,  and 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  among  them,  as  dt'cply 
agitated  as  Bonaventurc  himself.  But  he  could  not  at 
first  quite  grasp  the  full  import  of  Pierre's  remarks, 
and  looking  somewhat  wildly  and  helple.'isly  at  the 
others,  he  asked  Pierre  somethinir.  Pierre  aeain 
explained  matters,  and  emphasized  his  remarks  by 
placing  his  hand  on  Bonaventure's  shoulder.  Old 
Baptiste  looked  nervously  at  Bonaventurc,  apparently 
imable  to  believe  that  Pierre  meant  precisely  what  he 
said.  The  matter  was  so  imcxpcctcd  to  him  that  it 
took  him  some  time  to  collect  his  ideas.  He  still  stood 
tracing  Bonaventure's  outlines  up  and  down  with  his 


I^KWI 


22^ 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


eyes,  and  murmuring  something  to  himself,  in  the  same 
way  he  had  done  that  first  night  when  Gabrielle  brought 
him  home.  Bonaventure  watched  intently  each  pass- 
ing expression  of  the  old  man's  countenance,  as  if  he 
would  interpret  his  every  thought.  It  was  a  moment 
of  terribly  straining  suspense  to  both.  Bonaventure's 
eyes  were  glistening  with  tears.  Old  Baptiste  was 
trembling  as  if  palsied.  Suddenly  their  eyes  met,  as  if 
by  an  electric  spark.  It  was  only  an  instant,  and  they 
were  in  each  others  arms,  the  strong  man  who  had 
been  a  little  boy  and  the  old  man  who  had  been  so 
long  lost  to  him. 

There  was  no  more  of  the  old  man's  story  told  that 
night,  except  that  when  they  were  slightly  calmer  he 
was  able  to  confirm  the  relationship  by  remembering 
that  the  letter  contained  a  postscript  which  gave  the 
name  of  the  people  who  kept  the  tavern  where  Leon 
had  left  little  Bonaventure.  He  had  always  read  it 
"  M.  Glorrg  "  instead  of  McGlorrid,  Leon  having  spelled 
it  with  a  "  y,"  which  Baptiste  had  mistaken  for  a  "  g."  He 
had  supposed  the  "  M  "  at  the  beginning  was  meant  for 
"  Monsieur,"  and  had  overlooked  the  small  "  c."  But 
there  was  now  no  doubt  that  the  name  referred  to  was 
that  of  old  Timothy  McGlorrie. 

When  the  matter  was  firmly  settled  in  the  minds  of 
all  present,  old  B'gob-sir  expressed  the  sentiment  of  the 
party  by  saying: 

"  Well,  now,  b'gob-sir,  if  any  one'd  told  me  such  a 
thing  as  that  could  happen,  I'd  'a'  said  it  was  the  biggest 
lie  on  top  of  this  earth.  It's  worse  than  an  ordinary  lie. 
Nobody'd  ever  think  up  sech  a  thing  as  that  to  tell. 
Why,  Prosper  himself  couldn't  'a'  thought  up  anything 
as  good  as  that  if  he'd  'a'  been  right  in  the  midst  of  a 


THE    OLD    man's   STORY. 


223 


horse-trade.  Anyhow,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  things 
has  turned  out  perty  middlin'  good,  after  all,  even  if 
Mrs.  McGlorric  and  me  didn't  want  anybody  to  go  traip- 
sin'  off  after  that  wild— well,  now,  b'gob-sir,  I  jest  can't 
bring  myself  to  call  this  old  feller  a  wild  man  any 
more,"  as  he  looked  at  old  Baptiste  in  some  confusion. 
Then  suddenly  remembering  what  a  startling  bit  of 
news  he  had  for  the  people  at  Jerry's  tavern,  he  turned 
to  Philander  and  said:  "Well,  I  guess  we'd  better  be 
movin'  on  down  toward  the  village,  and  let  these  folks 
talk  it  over  among  themselves.  I  never  could  under- 
stand French  very  well,  anyway,  and  I'll  be  busted  if  I 
can  see  how  ever  old  Pabclecst,  as  they  call  him,  can 
make  out  anything  from  that  clack  of  Pierre's.  It's 
worse'n  the  cackle  of  a  hen.  Come  along.  Philander; 
le's  go  down  to  Jerry's.  Say,  do  you  know,"  as  they 
were  starting  out,  "that  last  lot  o'  whisky — "  But 
Philander  considerately  slammed  the  door  and  shut  the 
old  fellow's  words  out  into  the  night. 


XXVI. 


THE  STORY  CONTINUED. 

T  T  may  be  imagined  that  there  was  some  curiosity  on 
-*■  the  part  of  those  who  had  listened  to  the  first  part  of 
Baptistc's  story  to  hear  the  remainder;  so  on  the  next 
available  evening  they  again  came  together  at  Bona- 
venture's,  and  the  old  man  continued: 

"Qf^  course  after  getting  Leon's  letter  I  started  to 
Upper  Canada.  I  had  little  hope  that  I  should  find 
Bonaventurc,  it  was  so  long  since  he  had  been  stolen; 
and  yet  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  make  the  attempt. 
I  traveled  the  Kingston  Road — every  foot  of  it — inquir- 
ing all  along  for  a  man  by  the  name  of  Monsieur  Glorrg. 
Of  course  I  didn't  find  him.  I  gave  it  up,  heart-broken. 
What  was  there  for  me  to  do?  Where  should  I  go?  It 
was  impossible  to  go  back  to  Sorel — that  would  kill  me. 
I  wanted  to  go  insane,  but  a  man  can't  do  that  when  he 
wants  to.  All  the  same,  I  could  get  away  from  my  fel- 
low-man, and  that  was  something.  I  could  live  by  myself 
among  the  trees,  and  hear  them  moan  and  sing  in  the 
wind.  The  trees  didn't  steal  little  boys,  and  even  when 
they  fell  and  died,  they  didn't  say  the  things  that 
Angclique  said  to  mc  when  she  was  dying.  I  would  go 
and  stay  among  the  trees.  Maybe  I  7iU7s  insane,  after 
all.  I  don't  know.  I  started  north  from  the  Kingston 
Road  in  search  of  the  roughest,  wildest  spot  I  could 
find.  I  had  a  long  walk  before  I  reached  a  place  wild 
enough;    but   at   last    I  succeeded.     You  know  where 

(«4) 


THE    STORY    CONTINUED. 


225 


that  is.  I  found  a  cave  and  slept  in  it,  and  I  was  happier 
that  first  night  in  the  cave  than  I  had  been  ever  since 
AngeHque  died.  There  was  no  human  being  to  see 
me,  no  one  who  might  prove  false.  That  made  me 
happy.  Maybe  I  tuas  insane,  though.  I  can't  tell.  All 
the  same  I  must  get  something  to  eat  in  the  morning. 
I  had  an  old  musket  v\rith  me,  and  I  shot  a  duck  on  the 
little  creek  below  the  cave;  but  the  noise  of  the  gun 
made  me  think  too  much  of  human  beings.  It  jarred 
on  me  to  hear  any  sound  like  that  made  by  man.  After 
this  I  never  shot  the  old  musket  unless  I  was  driven 
to  it  by  hunger  or  fear.  I  lived  on  berries  at  first 
— it  was  in  the  early  fall — and  then  the  nuts  began 
to  get  ripe.  I  gathered  large  quantities  and  stored 
them  in  the  cave.  A  big  storm  came  up  that  first  fall, 
the  worst  I  had  ever  seen.  It  was  awful,  that  storm, 
and  lying  in  my  cave  I  thought  surely  the  last  day  had 
come.  I  think  I  was  glad  that  it  had — I  might  see 
Angelique.  But  by  morning  it  was  clear  and  bright. 
When  I  came  out  of  the  cave,  I  looked  down  toward 
the  creek  and  saw  that  the  wind  had  blown  a  forked 
cedar  tree  against  a  tall  pine.  It  was  fortunate  for  me 
that  it  did,  for  I  used  that  forked  cedar  a  great  many 
times  after  that.  The  way  I  came  to  use  it  was  this: 
One  day — it  may  have  been  years  after  this,  or  it  may 
have  been  only  weeks,  for  I  had  little  realization  of 
time — I  was  gathering  nuts,  and  placing  them  in  a  heap 
by  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  I  had  gone  away  after  a 
fresh  lot,  and  came  running  back  with  my  load — I  think 
I  must  have  run  most  of  the  time  in  those  days — when 
suddenly,  on  rounding  a  clump  of  bushes  near  the  cave, 
I  encountered  an  immense  black  thing  that  frightened 
me  nearly  into  spasms.     I  turned  and  fled,  flinging  my 

15 


22G 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    NONQUON. 


m 


.  ml 


nuts  as  I  ran.  I  was  now  in  a  dilemma.  I  dare  not  go 
near  the  cave  for  fear  of  this  huge  animal,  and  there 
was  no  way  that  I  could  tell  when  it  left  the  cave. 
Suddenly  I  thought  of  the  forked  cedar,  and  I  ran  to  it 
and  climbed  up  till  I  reached  the  pine.  I  was  hidden 
from  view  by  the  pine,  and  yet  I  could  peep  around  it 
and  see  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  I  found  it  was  a  big 
bear,  and  that  he  was  munching  away  at  my  heap  of 
nuts.  I  remained  up  the  tree  till  I  saw  him  leave,  and 
then  I  hastened  to  the  cave  and  drew  the  flat  stone  I 
had  secured  as  a  covering  over  the  mouth.  I  lay  there 
in  the  cave  till  absolutely  driven  out  by  thirst.  I  was 
afraid  to  approach  the  cave  after  that  for  fear  of 
encountering  the  bear.  It  was  so  situated  that  I  could 
not  see  it  till  I  was  right  at  the  spot,  and  so  I  always 
made  it  a  practice  to  first  run  down  to  the  cedar  and 
climb  up  to  look  around.  The  bear  came  many  times 
after  that  in  the  hope  of  finding  more  nuts,  and  one  day 
I  had  to  remain  up  the  cedar  till  nearly  night  before  he 
went  away  from  the  neighborhood.  My  great  desire 
now  was  to  kill  this  bear  if  I  could,  I  should  never  be 
safe  while  he  was  prowling  around,  and  anyhow  I 
wanted  his  skin.  But  how  to  do  it,  that  was  the  thing. 
I  was  afraid  to  trust  a  shot  with  the  old  musket,  for  I 
had  no  faith  that  it  would  kill  him.  If  it  simply  injured 
him  he  would  kill  me;  and  however  little  I  cared  about 
living  I  couldn't  bear  the  idea  of  being  torn  to  pieces 
by  an  animal.  I  almost  gave  it  up,  but  he  began  com- 
ing so  often  that  something  must  be  done.  So  one  day 
I  loaded  the  musket  with  a  very  Jieavy  charge — it  was 
about  the  last  ammunition  I  had — and  set  it  by  the  cave 
in  some  bushes,  with  a  string  made  from  the  bark  of  a 
tree  tied  to  the  trigger,  and  leading  to  a  twig  lying  on 


THE   STORY    CONTINUED. 


227 


the  ground  with  some  hazel-nuts  on  it.  I  waited 
'patiently  hour  after  hour  up  the  cedar,  but  he  did  not 
come  that  day.  I  set  it  again  the  next  day,  and  toward 
night  he  came.  He  went  rummaging  around,  and  finally 
saw  the  twig  of  hazel-nuts.  He  put  his  paw  on  the 
twig  and  pulled  off  one  of  the  nuts,  and  munched  away 
at  it  as  contentedly  as  possible.  I  was  afraid  he  was 
not  going  to  explode  the  musket,  but  presently  he 
seized  the  twig  in  his  teeth  and  began  shaking  it  vigor- 
ously. Suddenly  there  was  a  terrific  explosion,  and  I 
saw  him  leap  to  his  hind  legs  and  savagely  beat  the  r.ir 
with  his  fore  feet,  growling  all  the  while  most  terribly. 
He  tore  around  among  the  bush  mi  a  fearful  rage,  and 
I  was  unable  to  tell  whether  he  badly  injured  or 

not.  He  got  out  of  my  sight  in  short  time,  and  I 
heard  him  scrambling  off  among  tuc  bushes,  making  a 
noise  that  terrified  me.  I  hurried  to  the  cave  and  shut 
myself  up,  for  I  knew  I  was  safe  there.  A  bear  of  his 
size  never  could  get  through  the  opening.  The  next 
day  I  came  out  after  some  water,  and  as  I  was  going 
down  to  the  creek,  listening  every  step  I  took  for  the 
slightest  sound,  I  suddenly  came  upon  his  dead  body. 
I  was  frightened  of  him  even  when  dead,  but  I  managed 
to  skin  him,  and  his  hide  helped  to  keep  me  warm  for 
many  a  day  and  night. 

"  But  I  can't  tell  you  all  of  the  things  that  happened 
to  me  in  the  woods,  for  I  don't  know  myself.  This 
adventure  with  the  bear  was  the  last  really  connected 
thing  I  can  recount.  I  must  have  lost  my  mind  part  of 
the  time,  for  most  of  the  period  that  I  was  in  the  woods 
seems  like  a  disjointed  dream.  I  lived  like  an  animal 
among  the  animals,  only  there  was  no  other  animal  of 
my  kind  there.     I  can  not  say  that  time  hung  heavily 


^■^MMifc.' 


f 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


with  me,  for.  I  had  no  object,  no  aim,  no  association  to 
look  forward  to;  and  yet  I  often  found  myself  carving 
figures  on  the  wall  of  my  cave,  without  ever  remember- 
ing picking  up  the  stone  that  I  carved  them  with.  I 
think  I  must  have  mechanically  done  this  carving  on 
account  of  having  nothing  else  to  do.  I  ate  because 
my  stomach  pained  me  if  I  failed  to  eat.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  slept  much  or  not,  but  I  think  I  must  have 
dreamed  sometimes,  though  there  was  little  distinction 
that  I  can  see  between  my  dreams  in  my  sle^p  and  my 
waking  dreams.  In  all  my  dreams,  sleeping  or  waking, 
I  was  constantly  disturbed  by  visions  of  little  Bona- 
venture  and  poor  dear  Angelique.  I  would  sit  some- 
times looking  at  a  certain  tree,  and  if  I  looked  steadily 
at  it  very  long  it  would  presently  turn  into  Angelique, 
and  the  limbs  would  reach  out  to  me  as  if  they  were 
her  arms  and  were  trying  to  embrace  me;  and  when  I 
tried  to  get  hold  of  them  they  were  always  too  far 
away  for  me — I  never  could  touch  them.  I  would 
reach,  and  reach,  and  reach,  but  something  alwa^rs 
seemed  to  keep  her  arms  just  outside  of  my  touch.  It 
was  awful.  If  I  tried  for  a  long  time  to  reach  Angel- 
ique's  arms — and  I  always  must  try,  they  were  so 
appealing  to  me — the  *^  ^e  would  presently  begin  to 
dance  around  and  the  arms  make  motions  at  me  and 
wave  through  the  air,  and  then  the  other  trees  would 
start  until  there  were  dozens  of  Angcliqucs  and  hundreds 
of  arms,  all  dancing  around  me  and  driving  me  dis- 
tracted. Then  they  would  begin  to  jeer  at  me,  and 
tantalize  me,  and  exasperate  me  into  a  foaming  rage; 
and  when  I  could  stand  it  no  longer  I  would  rush  off  to 
the  cave  and  shut  myself  up  in  utter  darkness.  When 
I  came  out  again  there  would  be  nothing  but  trees 


THE   STORY   CONTINUED. 


229 


there — no  Angeliques;  and  then  I  would  be  disap- 
pointed, for  I  would  rather  see  Angelique,  even  if  I 
couldn't  reach  her  arms.  At  other  times  the  birds  in 
the  trees  would  turn  into  little  Bonaventures,  and  I 
would  hurry  after  them  and  chase  them  for  hours — I 
did  want  my  little  Bonaventure  so  much;  but  I  never 
could  catch  thera,  and  I  never  could  let  them  alone 
either,  till  I  had  gone  into  the  cave,  where  it  was  dark 
and  I  couldn't  see  them. 

"  I  must  have  lived  in  the  woods  a  long  time  without 
ever  seeing  a  human  being,  for  at  last  when  I  did  see 
one  I  was  terribly  frightened.  I  would  sooner  have 
met  an  animal  than  a  man;  but  I  kept  encountering 
one  now  and  then,  and  I  think  I  must  have  seen  people 
oftentimes  when  they  didn't  see  me.  I  always  got  out 
of  their  way  as  fast  as  I  could.  One  day  I  saw  three 
men  at  my  cave  as  I  climbed  the  cedar — I  had  formed 
this  habit  of  climbing  the  cedar,  and  always  did  it  even 
after  the  bear  was  dead — and  after  that  I  was  more 
frightened  than  ever.  I  came  near  moving  away  from 
the  cave,  but  sheer  force  of  habit  kept  me  there.  Then 
another  time  as  I  was  lying  in  the  cave  I  heard  voices 
outside,  and  presently  the  stone  was  drawn  aside,  and  I 
heard  Angelique  scream  and  run  away.  I  thought  at 
first  it  must  be  the  trees  mocking  me  again,  but  the 
sound  was  not  the  same,  and  then  the  stone  was  lifted 
away.  I  didn't  know  what  to  think  after  that;  but  one 
day  when  I  went  up  the  cedar  I  found  some  bread  lying 
there.  I  knew  that  must  be  from  Angelique,  for  I  had 
tasted  nothing  like  that  for  so  long.  Then  I  began 
watching  for  Angelique,  and  one  day  I  saw  her  climb- 
ing up  the  cedar,  and  then  I  knew  it  was  her,  for  it 
looked  just  like  the  real  Angelique.     It  was  different 


Hi  in 


230 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE   NONQUON. 


from  the  ones  I  had  seen  among  the  trees;  and  yet  I  was 
afraid  to  run  toward  her  at  once,  for  fear  she'd  get 
away  from  me  again.  I  wanted  Angelique  to  stay  with 
me;  but  she  left  me,  and  I  went  back  to  the  cave,  and 
thought  it  must  be  the  Angelique  of  the  trees,  after  all. 
And  yet  the  bread  she  gave  me — the  trees  had  never 
done  that — and  this  looked  like  the  real  Angelique,  I 
watched  for  her  to  come  again,  because  I  wanted  to  see 
her,  and  I  wanted  to  eat.  She  came  again  and  again, 
and  each  time  I  felt  worse  at  seeing  her  go,  till  at  last 
I  followed  her.  But  when  she  led  me  where  I  could 
see  other  people,  I  ran  back  to  the  cave.  I  didn't  want 
other  people;  I  wanted  Angelique.  But  it  was  awful  to 
go  back  to  the  cave  after  seeing  Angelique  and  hear- 
ing her  speak,  even  though  she  didn't  speak  as  she 
used  to  and  I  couldn't  understand  her.  I  knew  her 
voice  so  well  that  at  last  I  must  follow  her — I  couldn't 
leave  her;  and  one  night  she  brought  me  here,  and — and 
— I  guess  you  all  know  Angelique,"  looking  at  Gabri- 
elle,  who  instantly  rushed  weeping  to  his  embrace. 

He  petted  her  and  smoothed  down  her  hair,  much  as 
he  had  done  that  day  in  the  woods  when  he  had  so  terri- 
bly frightened  her. 

"  Yes,  Bonaventure,  my  son,"  said  the  old  man,  ten- 
derly pressing  Gabrielle  to  his  breast,  "she  is  the 
image  of  your  dead  mother.  I  have  found  my  Angel- 
ique, and  my  little  Bonaventure," 

When  Pierre  had  interpreted  this  to  Bonaventure 
the  great-hearted  soul  overflowed,  and  the  man  wept 
like  a  child.  He  had  been  intensely  impressed,  as 
indeed  had  all  the  others,  over  his  father's  pathetic 
story,  and  now  the  pent-up  feelings  of  years  must  have 
vent  in  some  way. 


i 


THE    STORY    CONTINUED. 


231 


When  Gabrielle  saw  her  father  sobbing,  she  sprang 
from  old  Baptiste's  knee  and  leaped  with  her  usual 
impulsive,  heart-beating  energy  into  his  arms.  The  sit- 
uation was  not  without  its  embarrassment  for  the  vis- 
itors present.  Donald's  inward  reflection  was  that  he 
wished  he  might  be  able  to  sob  like  Bonaventure,  so  that 
Gabrielle  should  treat  him  in  the  same  way.  Philander 
said  to  himself  that  he  felt  a  little  out  of  place  there, 
but  they  were  the  best  folks  on  top  of  this  earth,  and  he 
was  glad  they  were  all  so  happy.  B'gob-sir —  well,  he 
never  thought  anything  to  himself  that  he  did  not  im- 
mediately think  out  loud,  and  this  wa^  no  exception. 

"  Philander,  plain  to  be  seen  we  ain't  no  use  here. 
Can't  do  a  blame  bit  o'  good,  'cause  the  good's  already 
done — and — and  I'm  tickled  over  it,  I  can  tell  you.  If 
you  can  figger  up  anything  better'n  has  happened  here, 
I'd  like  to  see  the  figgers  and  add  'em  up.  What  say 
you,  Philander,  hadn't  we  better  mosey  ?  " 

Philander  assented,  and  after  bidding  all  good-night, 
the  two  started  toward  the  village. 

"  Say,  Philander,"  remarked  B'gob-sir,  after  they  had 
walked  some  time  in  silence,  "  do  you  know  I  come 
gosh-blamed  nigh  blubberin'  there  to-night  ?  I  r/td 
blubber — ain't  a-goin'  to  deny  it.  I  blubbered  right 
along  half  the  time,  and  I  ain't  'shamed  of  it,  gosh- 
blame  it.  What'd  a  feller  be  made  of  if  he  didn't  ?  I 
want  to  tell  you,  Philander,"  he  continued,  more  im- 
pressively, "  that  hull  affair  makes  a  man  think  there's 
a  God  in  heaven,  after  all,  even  if  such  a  whelp  as 
Prosper  Tryne  does  do  his  best  to  disgrace  him  on 
earth.     What  say  you.  Philander  ?  " 

"  Shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Philander,  after  a  pause, 
with  perhaps  more  meaning  than  the  words  would  seem 
to  imply. 


pa 


XXVII. 

CONCLUSION. 

C  PRING  had  come  around  the  Nonquon,  with  all  its 
^  softening-,  mellowing  influence.  The  snow  had 
slowly  stolen  away,  and  swelled  the  creeks,  and  rivers, 
and  lakes.  The  few  patches  that  remained  in  the  fence- 
corners,  where  the  drifts  had  been  high,  were  black  and 
scummed  over  with  the  refuse  of  a  winter.  The  roads 
were  muddy,  the  air  humid,  and  humanity  lazy.  The 
shantymen  had  nearly  all  gone,  leaving  only  one  inci- 
dent of  interest  marking  their  departure.  This  was  a 
serious  matter  concerning  Pierre. 

Poor  Pierre  had  lost  his  wife.  Not  from  death,  l)y 
any  means,  but  in  the  manner  predicted  by  one  of  the 
shantymen  on  a  previous  occasion.  Mrs.  Dufresne  had 
run  away — possibly  to  escape  the  terrible  alternative  of 
not  having  enough  work  to  do  when  the  shantymen 
were  gone.  The  fact  that  lent  color  to  this  theory  was 
that  she  had  gone  about  the  same  time  as  one  of  the 
shantymen  for  whom  she  used  to  do  a  great  deal  of 
washing.  The  few  that  were  left  condoled  with  Pierre. 
They  said  it  was  too  bad. 

"  And  then,"  remarked  one  of  them,  warningly,  "  no 
tellin'what  trouble  she'll  git  you  into.  She's  your  law- 
ful wife,  and  she  could  go  to  all  the  stores  and  buy 
things  and  git  trusted,  and  you'd  have  to  pay  for  'cm." 

'*  Wass  dat  ?  "  demanded  Pierre,  excitedly,  "  Vou 
say— " 

(232) 


CONCLUSION. 


233 


1  all  its 
w  had 
rivers, 
;  fencc- 
Lck  and 
e  roads 
r.  The 
le  inci- 
s  was  a 

;ath,  by 
i  of  the 
snc  had 
ative  of 
ntymen 
ory  was 
e  of  the 
deal  of 
[  Pierre. 

rly,  "  no 
:)ur  law- 
md  buy 
or  'cm." 
.     "  Vou 


t' 


"  Yes,  sir;  I  say  she  can  run  you  in  debt  all  over  if 
she  likes,  and  I'll  bet  she  likes,  sure  enough.  That's 
the  kind  of  a  woman  she  is." 

Pierre  was  in  a  terrible  dilemma.  He  stood  with  his 
eyes  cast  ruefully  on  the  ground  in  front  of  him,  and 
his  hands  pushed  deeply  into  his  trousers  pockets.  He 
slowly  shook  his  head  from  side  to  side,  revolving  the 
thing  in  his  mind.  The  fellow  probably  had  not  a  dol- 
lar in  his  pocket,  and  his  credit  was  no  good  in  any  store 
in  Canada,  but  it  was  all  the  same  to  Pierre.  He 
fancied,  as  he  stood  there,  that  he  was  a  very  responsi- 
ble personage,  and  that  the  prospects  were  good  for 
him  to  be  financially  ruined. 

**  Tell  you  what  you  can  do,  Pierre,"  said  the  shanty- 
man,  wishing  to  push  the  joke  further.  "  You  can  go 
to  the  stores  around  and  warn  'cm." 

"  Wass  dat  you  say?  "     Wharn  'em?  " 

"Yes,  warn  'cm."  And  he  proceeded  to  give  Pierre 
the  technical  process  necessary.  He  recited  to  him 
the  set  phrase  used  in  such  cases,  and  Pierre  started 
forthwith  with  an  impressive  mien  in  the  direction  of 
the  village  store.  Prosper  was  not  in,  so  he  walked  up 
to  Mrs.  Tryne,  who  stood  behind  the  counter,  and  in  a 
very  serious  and  dramatic  manner  l)cgan: 

'*  My  name,  das  Pierre  Dufrcsne.  Dat's  my  waf's 
name  too.  Aly  waf,  she  leave  my  h(nise — she  no  ax  me. 
Af  any  man  trus'  my  waf  on  my  name,  by  golly,  das 
los'  for  yo/(/ "  And  leaving  the  bewildered  Mrs. 
Tryne  staring  at  him,  he  stalked  out  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  had  just  had  his  prospects  in  life  scriou.sly 
jeopardized  by  the  depravity  of  others,  but  who,  through 
a  remarkable  degree  of  sagacity  and  decision,  had 
thwarted  their  base  designs. 


234 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  NONQUON. 


Many  springs  have  come  and  gone  around  the  Non- 
quon  since  then.  Some  changes  have  taken  place,  but 
few  of  any  moment.  The  railroad  has  spoiled  the  busi- 
ness of  the  country  tavern,  and  not  many  of  the  old 
ones  remain.  There  is  a  new  store-keeper,  a  youngei 
and  a  better  man  than  the  one  who  traded  a  blind  horse 
to  the  drunken  farmer.  The  greatest  change,  and 
probably  the  one  most  to  be  regretted,  is  in  the  name 
of  the  village.  Not  content  with  the  suggestive  Indian 
title  that  had  marked  the  place  since  the  early  days 
when  the  red  man  first  put  his  foot  upon  it,  the  modern 
inhabitants  petitioned  the  post  office  authorities  at 
Ottawa  to  give  them  a  new  word  more  to  their  liking. 
They  had  selected  the  name  of  Seagrove  for  their  vil- 
lage, and  sent  it  on  for  approval.  Through  some  mis- 
take of  the  authorities  the  word  was  changed  to  Sea- 
grave.  It  was  so  registered,  and  so  it  remains — a  fit- 
ting rebuke  upon  the  inhabitants  for  meddling. 

Some  shifting  scenes  have  passed  that  throw  us  into 
reverie.  Old  Baptiste  lived  the  rest  of  his  days  in 
serenity,  and  died  in  the  arms  of  his  "little  Bona- 
venture." 

One  day  in  May  following  the  old  man's  rescue  there 
was  a  wedding  at  Bonaventure's — with  two  happy 
hearts,  and — two  mothers-in-law.  The  bride  brought 
them  together,  and  made  them  promise  to  be  friends. 
No  one  could  resist  that  bride,  for  she  was  so  tender, 
tremulous,  and  tearful.  So  the  old  folks  forgot  about 
the  turnips. 

Another  scene,  a  few  years  later.  The  shades  of 
evening  are  falling  fast,  as  we  are  passing  a  house 
quite  modern  on  the  old  McFarlane  homestead.  The 
blinds  are  always  up  in  this  house,  so  to-night  we  feel 


CONCLUSION. 


235 


le  Non- 
ice,  but 
le  busi- 
the  old 
'■oungei 
id  horse 
^e,   and 
e  name 
5  Indian 
•ly  days 
modern 
rities  at 
r  liking, 
heir  vil- 
»me  mis- 
to  Sea- 
ts— a  fit- 

• 

7  lis  into 

days  in 

Le   Bona- 

:iie  there 
o  happy 
brought 
s  friends, 
o  tender, 
fot  about 


privileged  to  pause  and  look  in.  We  see  by  the  light 
inside  a  man  sitting  in  front  of  the  open  fire-place  with 
something  on  his  knee.  A  form  is  moving  about  the 
room,  passing  now  and  then  between  us  and  the  lamp 
on  the  table.  It  is  a  familiar  form — one  we  saw  years 
ago  in  a  canoe  among  the  logs  on  the  Nonquon  Creek. 
We  see  her  stoop  and  pick  up  something  in  her  arms. 
It  is  a  little  boy,  a  noble  little  fellow  in  his  small  white 
night-robe.  She  places  him  on  the  father's  other  knee, 
and  now  we  see  that  what  he  held  before  was  a  baby 
girl,  a  tiny  tot  of  two.  They  clamber  about  his  neck 
and  kiss  him  good-night,  and  then  jump  down  and 
scamper  after  the  mother,  who  has  taken  the  lamp  from 
the  table  and  opened  the  door  to  another  room.  We 
see  two  little  bobbing  heads  trotting  along.  The  light 
changes  from  one  window  to  another,  and  we  look 
again  and  see  the  white  forms  lifted  into  a  small  cot  by 
the  larger  bed.  We  see  the  mother  stooping  above 
them,  and  tucking  the  clothing  snugly  about  their 
little  shoulders  and  under  their  little  feet.  And  then 
we  see — divinest  sight  of  all — we  see  the  mother  bend- 
ing over  her  precious  babes,  and  printing  on  their  lips 
a  mother's  good-night  kiss,  the  sweetest  passport  to 
the  **  beautiful  land  of  nod." 


>hades  of 

a  house 

;ad.     The 

it  we  feel 


THE    END. 


n 


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